


The Elder Scrolls: Drachenlied

by Eisen



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Death dealing and dealing with death, Dragons, F/M, Fantasy, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Character Tags to be Added - Freeform, Slow To Update, Some tags may be added Prematurely, Violence, longfic, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-04-05 15:51:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4185750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisen/pseuds/Eisen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of the Dovahkiin - a being that does not know it's own true nature - and of how the Hero never died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - The Eternal Dark

**Author's Note:**

> All Elder Scrolls stuff belongs to Bethesda Game Studios. All references to mods etc. belong to their respective owners. Any deviations from the cannon story, lore and other things are mine.
> 
> I am forever indebted to [coffeeguru](http://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeguru/pseuds/coffeeguru) for her willingness to edit my work.
> 
> Also, my thanks to:  
> [MaryDragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryDragon), for constantly being _the_ best fic writer in existence.  
> [Caek](http://grimmcake.tumblr.com/), [Doodles](http://dissatisfied-doodles.tumblr.com/), [Alyx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/therutherfordwife/pseuds/therutherfordwife), [Aelie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelie/pseuds/aelie) and [Chant](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chanterie) for being cool friends and everything that is good about a fandom.

Far beyond the boundaries of all planes of existence, the infinite darkness bound itself to form. Here where there was not even a hint of magika or matter, a meeting of two eternal beings commenced.

 

Their temporarily finite eyes looked down at the realms below, but even this was unnecessary. Had they wanted to, they could have looked anywhere – upwards, sideways or beyond each other, and still seen what was arrayed below their feet. With eyes which could have been the size of stars, or the size of dust motes, relativity had no meaning here.

 

Chaotic colours clashed and merged where each realm met with its neighbouring one, as they tried vainly to maintain the fragile nature that was their existence. Oblivion – the name was hardly suited to these realms, for they were anything but that. They were teeming with energy and life. Fixed in the centre of all these realms was a blank void that seemed unshaken by the unrestrained fluctuating power beyond its borders, and in the centre of that void. suspended, was a sphere. A terrestrial orb that was blissfully ignorant of the colossal forces around it.

 

Bodies that could have spanned galaxies stood within deferential proximity of one another.

" _Child, you wished to speak_ ," the first being said. It was formed in the shape of a powerful man, but had no features – instead its entire body was the blackest of night that seemed to be defined more by how much light it absorbed, as opposed to what it reflected. Tendrils of nothingness and void wreathed off it like smoke – black holes spawned in its wake.

 

" _Yes Father, once more a period has come to my attention that is in need of the Champion._ "

 

The second form was a woman, beautiful beyond words, but her face was devoid of all emotion and her blue eyes watched the scene before them with an ageless vigilance.

 

 _"Yet another?"_ the man asked, his voice echoing in the void, _"What of the others?"_

 

" _They have worked themselves into places which would make it…problematic to reintroduce them into the Arena._ "

 

" _Perhaps you should direct them to better prepare for the long term. Too many of my powers will upset the Balance and the Order will end up being shattered forever – all in the name of trying to restore it._ "

 

The woman looked to where the dark figure's face would have been. " _I cannot involve myself that deeply without revealing your role, or our intent – better it be this way and the universe remain ignorant._ "

 

" _Very well. You shall have your Champion, but ensure that it is not compromised as the others were. If I am to make ripples, I want them to be too large for any to realise where their origin is._ "

 

" _Your will is mine, Father,_ " the woman bowed as the substance she was using to maintain her form poured back to the void.

  
The remaining figure continued to observe the chaos of the universe for a time – which to the world could have been a mere moment, or an eternity. Time had no meaning to him. He whispered something, words lost in the turmoil below. Then his form dissolved back into the darkness with no indication of the meeting ever having taken place.


	2. Establishing Existence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the story actually starts.

It was. That was its first conscious thought. Slowly that thought became a certainty and though it seemed to take an eternity, other thoughts started to join it. Images of a dark, dank, wooden place floated through the consciousness. It wasn’t quite sure what those things meant, but they seemed to fit the images. Yes, the scent of brine.

Scent, smell, brine, water, salt, ocean.

These were all things that seemed to belong there. Words, language, describe, communicate.

The images became clearer and clearer to the consciousness as it slowly established the finer points of its existence.

It was not alone in the images. There was a man as well.

Alone, solitude, company, people. Man, Mer, Elf, Human. Male, Female. Woman.

There was a Mer in the images. He was male. The consciousness decided it was most definitely female.

Man - Nord, Ra’ghada – Redguard, Imperial.

Mer - Altmer, Orsimer, Falmer, Dunmer, Bosmer, Dwemer.

Something was missing… Kajiit, Argonian, Akaviri.

The man in the images was Dunmer, yes. Dark Elf. He was talking.

The consciousness wasn’t listening though… it wasn’t any of those things that seemed to have materialised in its mind. Listening, hearing, ears, sound.

The images of the ship’s brig disappeared. Brig, prison, captivity.

Prison.

Another set of images asserted themselves. Not images. Moving. Eyes, seeing, experiencing.

Cell, dark, dank, again, bars, Dunmer, talking, taunting.

Guards, soldiers, important, emperor - empire, prison.

Taunting, different. What am I?

Question, I, me, individual, female - Man or Mer? No, neither – Nord, Altmer, Nordmer, Altord, Breton? Yes.

Yes - confirm, sure, certain, affirmation.

The now female Breton consciousness had finally filled that gaps that had been bothering it. Asserted its existence’s nature. It, no… _she_ began to focus on the experiences that swam before her. They seemed like they should belong to her, but they were oddly detached.

They started fading into obscurity; the last ones she glimpsed were of a great lizard…no, dragon, turning to stone. A vague feeling of sadness enveloped her as she watched it take place.

Sadness - emotion, feel, love, hate, happy.

The assertion of thoughts, feelings and terms was interrupted by a bright light, far away, but quickly drawing closer. It grew and grew until it enveloped everything the consciousness perceived. Slowly, other things started to sift in through the light. No, not through. Light…sight, eyes.

The new things were another sense. Yes, sense - sound, hear, scent too… .

Vibrating, jostling, rough, cold - touch.

The consciousness became aware that the light was not just…a light. It began to assert itself into shapes, things - sight.

Something was missing.

Touch, dry, tongue, mouth? Taste!

Unpleasant…throb…touch? No. Pain.

Then everything seemed to slot into place. She was on a carriage, in a cold place…a northern province then. Her hands were bound; so she was a prisoner, again? There were others with her too. Tall, fair, chiselled features, rugged: Nords. There was another with his back to her but she couldn’t see clearly. Then her motor functions seemed to understand themselves and she turned her head. Armour, leather, mail, red, iconic helmet: Legion - Imperial. She was a prisoner of the Empire, again, the things she had experienced while still asserting her consciousness clearly meant that that had been her, but…different. She groaned, trying to rub the bleariness from her eyes, the bindings making it somewhat more difficult.

“Ah, you’re finally awake,” the man across her observed in a heavy accent.

He was what would probably be considered handsome, in a rough way that clearly showed that while he might have been blessed with good looks, he certainly did not care about them and that he spent most of his time in battle. Yes, he had the look of a warrior.

To his left there was another man; he on the other hand was thin, and his posture clearly showed that he was nervous, that he would bolt at the next best opportunity. His demeanour just screamed one thing: thief.

She stopped paying them much attention. It seemed that after noticing that she was awake, they had lost interest in her, talking about Stormcloaks, Imperials and Jarls. Jarls, they must be in Skyrim.

The soldier riding the carriage even yelled for them to quieten down, but they seemed not to hear him, or just ignored him. The two men’s conversation soon drifted to the man sitting next to her. She almost had not noticed him. He was gagged, probably like she had been at some point, if the taste in her mouth was anything to go by. But it seemed that he was some important political figure. Which was probably bad, judging by the reaction the skinny man gave on finding out his identity.

Name, it was bothering her. The man across her had given her his, but she hadn’t really been paying attention so promptly forgot it. Forgotten name…what was hers? _Who was she?_

~o~

The carriage rounded a bend in the road and they could now see where they were headed - a city; a village? She saw that theirs was not the only carriage, but one of  three, with a cavalry escort. The settlement they were nearing was most likely a city, if it was important enough to warrant having a wall and towers. The Nord before her started relating what he knew of the place. It was called Helgen, which was about the extent of the useful information he was going to share. The rest was just some nostalgic and philosophical narrating that didn’t interest her. Instead she inspected everything around her, the way the buildings were arrayed, the people that were gathering to watch the carriages pass by, the condition of the walls and towers.

Her absorbing of the environment was interrupted though, when she spotted two mounted men clad in black-gold robes, waiting where the road that entered the city split into two. One of the men from the cavalry escort headed off to speak to them, seemingly an officer, judging by his attire. The Nord across her noticed her piqued interest and turned to see what she was looking at. Seeing the two men, he spat into the road, cursing as he resumed his prior position. “Damn Thalmor, I bet they had something to do with this.”

She wasn’t sure what he was referring to, but she assumed that it had to do with their capture. She herself was still unsure of why she was here, the only memories she had prior to waking in the cart had been those strangely detached experiences and even those were very vague, flashing by, jumping between events.

The Nord across from her had assumed she had been trying to cross the border, like the skinny man, “Horse-thief,” as he had been named by the warrior, purely because of how he had been caught by trying to steal a horse. It seemed a bit odd to her that the empire had bothered with him, considering most of the men sitting bound in the carriages were wearing the same attire – that of soldiers.

So that meant that it had been a military ambush. It eluded her how any of this made any sense to begin with. From all the talking her fellow prisoners had been doing it seemed that there was a civil war taking place. Yet as more and more things clicked into place in her mind about the world, the less their current circumstances made sense. They were travelling north, to the southernmost city in Skyrim, so anything south of them would have been part of Cyrodiil, probably Bruma.

Bruma. That word brought back half-remembered images. A beautiful snow-covered town, a stone fortress in the mountains, a massive gaping red tear in the fabric of reality out of which the stench of brimstone and sulphur wafted, men and monsters fighting on the blood-stained snow – daedra, Oblivion.

She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts again. It still didn’t make any sense! Why would the leader of a rebellion risk travelling this close to the enemy homeland and if the Thalmor were what she thought they were, going south put you in more danger regardless of which province you were travelling to. Also, why would a military ambush have bothered with a horse-thief? Why was _she_ here?

Her train of thought was interrupted then. Absorbed as she was, she hadn’t noticed that the carriages had stopped. Prisoners had started to climb off the wagons.

It seemed there was some sort of register that one of the legionnaires was reading off, calling out the names of prisoners. The nord warrior she had been travelling made some disparaging comment about the legion and their lists. Maybe she could learn her name now, she thought, at least something good could come of this mess.

Her thoughts were interrupted yet again when the name of the horse-thief was read out: Lokir of Rorickstead. The man panicked and tried to run away, shouting something about being innocent and not wanting to die today. The imperial captain standing next to the legionnaire reading the names didn’t even flinch. She raised her arm and brought it down in a sharp and all too obvious signal. Two bowstrings twanged. The horse-thief fell, two feathered shafts sprouting from his back.

The captain nodded to the legionnaire for him to continue, despite the man behind them slowly drowning in his own blood. He turned from the scene that had played itself out and cleared his throat as he tried to find his place on the list again. His brows furrowed and he looked up at her, motioning that she approach, “And you? Who are you?”

She looked at him dumbfounded. Forgetting that she had actually been looking forward to finding out who she was, she wanted to ask why she was even here, especially considering that they didn’t seem to know. But her lips couldn’t find the words and she realised that up until now, she may well have never talked before to her knowledge. Frustrating.

But just as the captain was about to say something, her lips seemingly moved of their own accord. “Aoife, Aoife Dovahvrhan.”

The legionnaire nodded, and turned to the captain, “Captain, she’s not on the list.”

“No matter, she goes to the block.” The captain responded, waving a dismissive hand, it didn’t even seem as though she had given the matter any thought. The legionnaire gave Aoife an apologetic look, then motioned that she move over to where most of the other prisoners were already standing lined up.

A pity, Aoife thought. Death came knocking, just as she established her existence.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " Aoife, Aoife Dovahvrhan." \- The name was reworked from the prior "Eris Drachenlied". I had already used Eris for my Mass Effect story, so it felt weird using the name again (I do that in games, bite me) and Drachenlied was a bit too German (well...it _is_ German) considering that TES has no culture that is truly German, the closest being the Nords as far as I know, and that wasn't close enough.
> 
> Aoife is pronounced: "Ee-feh" and is taken from Gaelic, since my character is Breton, I wanted it to have a Celtic theme. Dovahvrhan is a mashing together of Dovahzuhl and Gaelic, being a direct translation of Drachenlied (Dragonsong) into Dov (Dragon, in Dovahzuhl - Skyrim's dragontongue) and "amhrán" which is phonetically pronounced as "ahvrhan" (Song, in Gaelic, better than the Dovahzuhl's lavaas, which just sounded too long and soft).
> 
> My thanks to [coffeeguru](http://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeguru), my beta, for being my Gaelic translator and general all-round awesome editor. Bouncing Brains, they generate ideas like nobody's business.


	3. Fate, or Luck?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It Dawns in _Fire._

“Next, the Breton in the rags!”

Ralof chuckled grimly to himself. Despite being such sticklers for protocol, the Legion seemed eager to move things along a bit faster than usual today. With good reason too; they had gotten their hands on Ulfric Stormcloak, a thorn they had been trying to get rid of ever since the Markarth incident.

He pitied the woman, Aoife, he thought he had heard her call herself. In all honesty she probably had no right to be here; they had simply stopped at a seemingly random point in the road from the ambush site and loaded her unconscious form onto the cart. They didn’t even have her on their list and she was going to be executed for high treason. A similar boat as the horse-thief had been in, but at least he had been a criminal, even if the punishment outweighed the crime by a large margin.

She was no eye-sore either; their trip to Helgen had given him plenty of time to size up his fellow passengers. Ulfric had been as stern as ever and he managed to look as if he was exactly where he meant to be, even when gagged and bound. Lokir on the other hand had been an open book, babbling nervously. Ralof was sure that if he had raised his voice just a bit, the thief would have either had a heart-attack, or wet his pants. Damn milk-drinker.

Aoife on the other hand, she was an enigma. Her name hinted at Nordic ancestry, but her features were far softer than the hard angles that characterised by Nords. He had also noted there was a pale scar running along her jawline on the left side of her face. She was tall, for a woman, much like a Nord in that respect too, but her hair was jet-black, opposed to the fair hair that was the Nordic norm; cut at neck-length, it was a practical, yet still feminine style. Her eyes were also different from those that characterised Nords, but in her case Ralof thought that those eyes were far from any human’s The irises were a deep golden hue unlike any he had ever seen before, except possibly among the Kajiit or Argonians, although theirs were far more bestial than hers, and she was also lacking the slit pupils they had. His reason attributed this to her Mer blood, but his gut told him otherwise; those eyes had seen things, terrible and awesome things.

She was by no means poorly endowed, and her arms and what of her legs that were exposed by the ragged tunic she was wearing were well toned, with the occasional faded scars of battle-wounds by claw or blade marring the lightly tanned skin. Ralof wondered if even he had seen as much battle as this woman, judging by the number of marks and she couldn’t have been older than her late twenties, maybe early thirties. If it hadn’t been for the eyes, he would have immediately pegged her as Forsworn, one of those madmen from the Reach, but as she had stirred he had been able to glance into her eyes. Those eyes were not those of a madman; they had touched the waters of insanity, yes, but were not swayed by its currents. Instead they seemed to sail them as a masterful captain would his vessel on a stormy ocean; those eyes could trap your soul. The warrior did not know what to make of her.

_Who was this woman?_

She had not spoken once, not until they had asked her for her name. When they had loaded her onto the carriage, Ralof had noted that the skin around her mouth had been reddened as if recently tightly gagged. But that had not been there for the duration of the trip to Helgen, yet she chose not to speak. Instead it seemed as though the world was being absorbed by those eyes, not analysing, as one who would try to escape would do, but as if they were asserting their existence, location and purpose.

When she finally spoke, her voice seemed rich and warm, but it had a ring to it, an echo, much like her eyes. When she spoke, what was said had meaning; meaning and power, and what she had given meaning and power to had been her name, her existence. Suddenly she had seemed more real than before, more real than any of those assembled.

Ralof had heard Ulfric speak, he who was versed in the Voice, who had shouted down the High King himself with a mighty Thu’um. This woman’s voice carried the same power as when he spoke, yet hers had another, more ancient undercurrent. Ralof understood then, that this woman would not speak without purpose. For what she said would undoubtedly come to pass, to her they would flock as they had not to Ulfric or Tullius, the general in charge of the Legion in Skyrim, and overseeing this execution.

Perhaps that was why she was now destined to die with the rest of them. If she had spoken before, others would have undoubtedly learned of her potential. He had gathered this much just from her saying her name; how much could be gleaned from a whole conversation? No doubt these were more Thalmor machinations. They saw in her a potential threat to their power, and were going to end it before it manifested itself – funny that, Ralof thought to himself; all the power in Skyrim consolidating like this. Much like what the wizards said about the moons and this world pulling each other together. Suddenly the seasoned warrior did not believe that things here would go according to how the Empire had intended.

~o~

Hadvar had a bad feeling about all of this. He had been in the Legion since his youth, when he had joined together with Ralof, who had been like a brother to him since growing up together in Riverwood. But now Ralof was a Stormcloak, a traitor, having defected from the Legion to join Ulfric in his mad drive for power. Yes, the Legionnaire resented not being able to worship Talos freely, just like any Nord, but that did not mean that every man could now go back on the oaths they had sworn. Ulfric and his so-called _Stormcloaks_ all went on about their honour and traditions, but what right did a deserter have to speak about honour? And traditions, was that not what Tiber Septim, Talos of Atmora himself, originally set out to change? Did he not unify the known human, Mer and beast folk of Tamriel under one banner, to put a stop to all conflicts, to unify all traditions?

Indeed he felt that the whole of Skyrim was fighting for the wrong reasons, but he was a soldier and he would remain loyal to his oath. But even now that oath was being tested. Their garrison in Helgen had been informed to prepare for the execution of several rebels, but how things were working out did not sit well with Hadvar.

First those Thalmor had arrived, their mere presence putting the whole town ill-at-ease. Tales of the Justicars and their slaughter of Talos-worshippers had drifted to all the holds and no Nord would ever fully renounce the ascended man-divine in their hearts, so they all felt threatened by the black-and-gold-robed men. Then the wagons had arrived with the prisoners, from the looks of things at least a dozen executions would be held today. The cavalry escort was led by none other than General Tullius himself, who immediately went to confer with the Thalmor upon seeing their waiting forms. The wagons slowly wound their way through the town, coming to a halt in the garrison’s courtyard, where the executions were to be held.

Hadvar’s heart sank when he recognised Ralof among the captured. They might be on opposing sides, but they were still brothers in the end, even if not by blood. He had been assigned to check that all went as planned and that the events here would be reported, so as he scanned through the list he had been given, one name in particular stuck out at him. _Ulfric Stormcloak_. They had finally captured him. It seemed to Hadvar that for all intents and purposes, this civil war was already over before it had really begun. With the rebelling holds losing their figurehead, they would soon sway back under Imperial control. Yet, what was this nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right? A soldier had to trust his gut, and Hadvar’s gut told him things would not go as planned.

This first became evident when he read out the name of Lokir, of Rorikstead. The list had put him down as a horse thief, but it seemed he was facing the same punishment as the Stormcloak soldiers. Clearly the man had come to this conclusion himself and rather than try to appeal he attempted to bolt as soon as his name was read. The captain didn’t hesitate to give the order that he be shot. She was a harsh woman, a Redguard, and like many of her native people, well versed in combat. But there were times when Hadvar wondered how she had attained the rank she had, being as ruthless as she was. Or perhaps that’s why she had attained it. The Empire was no stranger to corruption, and certain people were bound to benefit from a captain that would not hesitate to kill first and ask later, or not ask at all.

Regardless, the man was now dead, or would be in a very short while. Hadvar tried his best to ignore the bubbling gasping as the man’s blood filled his lungs. Turning back, he saw that he had come to the end of his list, yet there was still a prisoner waiting. It was a woman, strangely he had not noticed her before, but now she was looking at him, a piercing gaze with eyes that seemed to bare his soul. Breaking eye-contact with her he tried to focus on the list again. No, she definitely wasn’t on it. Looking back at the raven-haired woman he struggled to find his voice again after beckoning her closer. “And you? Who, are you?”

A look of mild annoyance flashed across her face. He could understand why; something had gone horribly wrong in the setting up of this that she was here. Even the horse-thief had been warranted a place on the list, yet she, who was probably going to die, had no known reason for actually being here.

Hadvar could sense that the captain was growing impatient, but before she could say anything the prisoner opened her mouth: “Aoife, Aoife Dovahvrhan.” _Aoife_. There was something about how she said it. Hadvar had to check the list again to see if her speaking it had not magically made it appear there. Of course it had not. He turned to the Redguard standing beside him. “Captain, she’s not on the list.”

The captain grunted in annoyance. “No matter, she goes to the block,” she barked, waving a dismissive hand. Hadvar looked at the woman, feeling sorry for her; she was quite beautiful, he noticed, beneath all the dirt and rags, had no known reason for being there and still she would die. He motioned that she join the other assembled prisoners.

~o~

 

Ralof was already waiting with the others by the time Aoife joined their ranks. For it was indeed ranks in which the Legionnaire’s had placed them some would have interpreted it as a final honour, or insult. The Nord knew the true reason behind it though: efficiency. This way they could set up a bucket chain of executions, with minimal fuss and maximum control over the prisoners. That was the machine that was the Legion, damn Empire.

Standing in front of the prisoners were several figures, not counting the guards that were spread around the courtyard to dissuade any kind of resistance. There was of course, the headsman, with his dark hood and blank stare, the Orsimer-forged axe he was leaning on, its edge gleaming wickedly in the morning sun.

Standing further behind him was a priestess, most likely of Arkay, if the events that were about to unfold were anything to go by. She was dressed in the traditional robes of any priest serving the divines in Skyrim, which were very plain, dyed a reddish-brown hue with a hood that was straw-coloured. Normally the only way to tell which divine priests served from another was by the amulet they wore, but for some reason, this one was not wearing hers.

The Thalmor that they had seen earlier were now silhouetted against the sky on top of the garrison tower. Ralof silently wished that by some power, a stray arrow would pierce them, that the tower would collapse, or they would slip and fall to their deaths. His train of thought was interrupted by the Imperial officials now making their way past the prisoners to the front. One of them being Hadvar; to think he had once thought of him as a brother! The Stormcloak silently ground his teeth, trying to refrain from doing something rash.

The captain took her post next to the headsman. Hadvar headed on to the garrison; he had no particular desire to be witness to what was about to happen. But orders were orders, so since he had to do it, he would do it from as far away as possible. He took his post, leaning against the tower with his back. General Tullius continued walking until he was standing in the centre of the slightly raised section of the courtyard and turned to address the assembled prisoners.

“Ulfric Stormcloak.” The general had a refined accent, hinting at an aristocratic upbringing. “Some here in Helgen call you a hero.” Tullius paused for a moment, looking over the prisoners at the crowds that had assembled to watch the executions. “But a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne!”

Ulfric made a muffled response through the gag, but the general continued regardless. “You started this war and plunged Skyrim into chaos; now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace.”

Just then, as if on cue, Ralof heard an unworldly noise coming from the mountains they had just left. He scanned the horizon, knowing that he would not be able to spot anything from this distance, but it proved a good distraction from what he knew was about to happen.

Clearly he had also not been the only one to hear it, from the back of the courtyard he heard Hadvar. “What was that?”

General Tullius, slightly peeved at the interruption dismissed it without thought as he moved to the eastern end of the courtyard. “It’s nothing, carry on.”

The Redguard captain snapped to attention, “Yes, General Tullius.” She turned to the priest, “Give them their last rites.”

Ralof chuckled morbidly. The Empire had seemingly skipped nearly all steps in their standard protocol, but they would still allow the last rites to be administered. Needless to say, he found it amusing.

The Priestess stepped forward, raising her arms. “As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines…”

Hearing such open blasphemy against Talos, one of the Stormcloak soldiers’ patience snapped. “For the love of Talos, shut up and let’s get this over with!” he shouted as he walked towards the headsman with a determined stride.

“Very well.” The priest sounded very annoyed at the rude interruption. But since the soldier would get his due, she didn’t offer further complaint.

“Come on, I haven’t got all morning!” he shouted at the somewhat startled Legionnaires. Then the captain snapped into action, roughly handling him into position, pushing him to his knees and holding him down with her leather-shod foot.

The Stormcloak grimaced and twisted to look at her. “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperial; can you say the same?”

Thshluck! The unmistakeable sickening sound of a head being severed in one blow reached the ears of all assembled, falling neatly into the box placed there. A ripple of shock went through the prisoners; now their fate was all the more real to them. One of the female Stormcloaks shouted, shocked, “You Imperial bastards!”

The crowds behind the prisoners jeered. Ralof could make out shouts of “Justice!” and “Death to the Stormcloaks!” It saddened him that he could recognise the voices of Milod and Vignar among the ones shouting. He looked to his fellow prisoners, eyes lingering on Aoife. He turned back to the headless corpse before them that was now being pulled aside by some unfortunate grunt assigned to the task. “As fearless in death as he was in life,” the Nord commented.

The captain seemed spurred on to speed up the process. “Next, the Breton in the rags!”

Ralof looked at Aoife; she was the only one here who could be a Breton and the only one who was wearing rags. This made it seem all the stranger as to why she was here to begin with. Then, just as before, there was a roar from the mountains, this time a great deal closer. The Nord warrior wondered what could make such a sound; he had lived in Skyrim all his life and he had heard all manner of sounds come from the wilderness before: wolf, sabre cat, bear, troll… he had even heard the shrieks of hagravens, the moans of draugr and the cries of were-beasts, but never before had he heard this sound. It chilled him to the bone.

A ripple of fear went down the assembled prisoners; what did this omen mean? They shot fearful glances at one another and at the nearby peaks. One of the younger ones even started praying. Hadvar once again voiced what everyone was thinking. “There it is again, did you hear it?”

The captain’s temper seemed to be getting the better of her. “I said, next prisoner!” she commanded through gritted teeth.

Hadvar stepped forward again, motioning at Aoife. “To the block prisoner, nice and easy.” He did not know why he added that last part, but he did pick up that the Breton had not noticed that she was the only one of her kind here, nor that she was the only one wearing rags. In all honesty she bore herself as if she were wearing clothes fit for a jarl and totally unaware of how she was attired. The captain had been a bit vague in her command after all, so he stepped in before things could slide out of control.

Then once more, all eyes were on the prisoner at the block; the headsman stepped back to allow the captain room as she forced the woman into position, being somewhat rougher than needed; probably because Aoife had been a minor hitch in all the proceedings that day.

~o~

Aoife wondered why they hadn’t dealt with the Ulfric fellow first, as it seemed to be the smartest thing to do. Kill the leader in front of the followers, inspire fear and confusion. Let one of them report home to spread the news faster. Also, reduce the chances of failure. One never knew what could disrupt proceedings.

Instead, she was being marched off to the block; it was only once the Legionnaire had directed her to move that she became aware that she had been the one addressed by the captain and that she was indeed wearing rags. No wonder she was so cold! But if she was wearing rags she must have been kept prisoner for a lengthy period of time, or have been a beggar. She could not picture either scenario, but with her limited experience she supposed anything was possible.

The captain roughly pushing her to her knees interrupted her thinking; she vaguely wondered what they were planning with the box for the severed heads, since the other man his head was still inside it, and it was not large enough for both of theirs. Ah well, that was their problem to clean up afterwards.

Lying on the side of her face on the block offered her an unprecedented view of the headsman, while staining one side of her face red with the blood of the prior victim. He seemed to hesitate for a split-second when he saw her watching him, but then he stepped back and readied for the swing.

Then came another roar, this one close enough for it to dispel any illusion that it had been a trick of the mind. “What in Oblivion is that?!” General Tullius shouted.

From her angle, Aoife watched as a massive dark shape detached itself from the nearest mountain, but then her sight was blocked by the tower upon which the two Thalmor agents were standing alongside two other imperial sentries.

The captain lifted her foot off of Aoife. “Sentries, What do you see?”

A voice from the assembled crowds shouted, “It’s in the clouds!”

Then without further warning a great black creature crashed down on top of the tower before Aoife – she was sure she heard the crunch of bone as one of the Thalmor agents met his end. It had scales the colour of midnight, and its body was the size of a wagon. The neck was as long as a horse and the head larger than a man. It had a massive tail that smashed into one of the sentries that had been on top of the tower, sending him flying over the edge. Spines as long as swords protruded from a crest behind the head and along the back. It had massive wings, the span of a windmill’s sails with claws at the end, so it could cling to a surface as a bat would. Baleful orange eyes leered down as those assembled below scattered.

The Stormcloak woman gave voice to what everyone thought, “ _Dragon!_ ”

General Tullius reacted in a manner befitting his position. “Guards!” he yelled as he ran towards the entrance of the courtyard the wagons had used. “Get the townspeople to safety!” By now the assembled crowds had scattered, screaming. The Stormcloaks had used the opportunity to make themselves scarce.

The headsman on the other hand seemed not to be concerned by all of this. He brought back the axe to finish that which the dragon had interrupted with no heed to what was happening around him. The beast seemed to convulse strangely and then with a crack of thunder, the skies that had been clear a moment ago clouded up in the blink of an eye, lightning dancing between the rapidly swirling clouds. Still the headsman was set to try and behead the woman kneeling before him, when the dragon convulsed again, this time looking directly at Aoife with its maw opening. Its burning eyes seemed strangely familiar to her, but then hers widened as she saw a wave of pressure being emitting from the dark gullet. It hit the headsman squarely in the back, snapping his spine as if it were a brittle branch. Sending the axe spinning to the side and his body flying over her into a nearby wall with a thud, he fell to the ground, unmoving. The raven-haired Breton struggled up again from where the shock wave had thrown her. The headsman had taken the brunt of it, but she had still had had a rather solid and unplanned meeting with the cobblestone floor; she was sure that if she made it to the next day there’d be bruises on her to such an extent that if one took the time one would be able to plot a map of Tamriel on her skin, not to mention the impressive set of bells ringing in her ears, bloody shrine to Dibella indeed.

~o~

Ralof thanked the gods that he had thought to try and wear through his bonds on the journey here. On arrival he had given up hope of any chance of escape, but now it had blossomed again. Most of the Imperial soldiers had run into the town to try and protect its people from the aerial attack; those that had not, had either been killed by escaping Stormcloaks, the dragon, or falling rubble. It was amazing how quickly the city was being destroyed. The dragon had barely appeared, and already there was fire, smoke and debris everywhere.

He ran to the tower that had been at their back while waiting to be executed, working off the ropes around his hands. He glanced back, knowing that doing so was not the wisest thing, but he could not help himself. The courtyard was a mess; anything that was flammable was burning, and the floor was littered with corpses, blood staining the old cobblestones. He noted that the headsman’s body was twisted at a particularly awkward angle. Then a small movement caught his eye; slightly distanced from the block a form was sprawled on the ground, _the Breton!_

~o~

Aoife felt a hand grab her, roughly pulling her to her feet and half dragging her from where she had fallen. The person who had grabbed her was shouting at her, while her freshly-formed consciousness was struggling to remain in place. Finally the voice seemed to resolve into intelligible words over the ringing. “Hey, stay with me girl, get up! The gods won’t give us another chance.”

She struggled to find her feet as she was dragged along, eventually finding her balance again and half running, half getting dragged. She looked to where they were headed, to see the dark portal to one of the garrison’s towers. Just as they reached the door the man who had helped her pushed her hard. She few forward, through the doorway, crashing to the floor a second time in what seemed to be her whole life. Seconds later a heavy weight fell on one of her outstretched arms; luckily it had not been positioned in a manner so that the sudden force might have broken it.

Then without warning, there was a loud noise behind them and a gust of hot air and sparks as the scaffolding that had been set up to the one side of the tower collapsed under its own weight, preventing access to any others with the flaming debris. A figure in the shadows stepped forward to slam the door shut, blocking out the heat and noise. It seemed that either by fate or chance, the appointment with the headsman had been cancelled.


	4. Out of the Frying Pan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well you know how the saying goes...

Ralof struggled up as soon as the door behind them closed, preparing for the worst. Relief washed over him as he saw who the shadowy figure was. “Jarl Ulfric,” he started, but just then the entire structure shook, dirt falling from the rafters.

They both crouched slightly, backing against the wall and watching the roof. The Nord looked around the room; in addition to the Breton he had dragged in with himself and the Jarl, there were two others, the female Stormcloak and another man; Risa, he thought her name was, the man he could not see as Risa was leaning over him, tending to some wound.

He turned back to the Jarl. “What was that thing; could the legends be true?” Despite having had a rather impressive front row seat to what had just happened, Ralof still had difficulty grasping it.

Ulfric on the other hand seemed grim; he had been staring into space, chin resting in his right hand, while the left cradled that arm. After a moment’s pause he turned, ice-blue eye catching Ralof’s. “Legends do not burn down villages.”

Ralof nodded; they had to come to terms with what was happening fast, if they were to survive. The Breton stirred, pushing herself up. The Nord quickly went to assist her; he had seen what the dragon did to the headsman, and to think she had been just behind that man when he had broken like a toy. When he had found her still conscious after going back for her, he had been surprised he attributed it to her Nordic heritage.

Once she was on her feet again, finally managing to stand under her own weight, Ulfric addressed the warrior assisting her. “We have to move, the Imperials will kill us on sight if the dragon does not get to us first.”

Ralof nodded, turning to look at the staircase winding up the tower’s side. “We’ll have to go up.” He was stating the obvious, but even so it seemed slightly hopeless to try and escape to anywhere from the higher floors of an isolated tower. Perhaps a nearby building’s thatch had not yet caught fire and they could use that to get down at the risk of breaking a leg, if the roof itself did not give way.

The warrior led the way up, making sure not to miss a step in the darkness, since most of the light in the tower had been blocked out by the closing of the door and as there were no torches lit during the day; they had to rely on light coming from the arrow-slits in the walls. They were about to reach the first floor of the tower, where a man was trying to shift some rubble from the rest of the staircase, when Ralof was grabbed from behind and pulled back.

The only thing stopping the Nord from hurtling further down the staircase were the arms that had pulled him back to begin with, but he still crashed into the wall, barely missing Ulfric. Furious, he rounded on the one who had pulled him back, who just happened to be the Breton woman, and was about to give her a piece of his mind when the wall erupted where he had been standing a moment before, dust and building stones flying into the room. One of the rocks hit the man who had been toiling at the debris on the stairs on the shoulder, spinning him around, but before he could get his bearings, the tip of the dragon’s mouth entered into the hole it had created and let forth a torrent of flames. Aoife and the two others huddled against the wall that they were up against trying to stay out of the stream of death; the other man caught it full in the chest, though, and screamed until he was nothing but a pile of ash and bones on the floor.

Ralof swore loudly, realising how close to death he had just come. Had it not been for the Breton, he’d probably be in a similar condition as the unfortunate man. He solidly patted the woman on the shoulder, the look he gave her conveying his gratitude.

“The way up is blocked now, more than ever.” Ulfric stated, “may the gods have mercy on any trapped up there.”

Ralof nodded in agreement, “Yes, but perhaps this dragon has once again blessed us with another chance.” He said indicating the man-sized hole that was now gaping in the tower’s side.

Aoife moved to look out of the hole, checking that the dragon didn’t intend to flame the tower’s guts again, but the creature seemed to be busy immolating other parts of the town for now. Ralof moved to stand next to her; outside the tower there was a burning building, most of its thatch already ash. Ralof pointed to a hole in the roofing, “There, see that hole? Maybe it’s possible to jump there from here.” He looked at Ulfric, ever the soldier awaiting his superior’s confirmation. Ulfric merely nodded. “Yes, but first we have to see if those two below are going to be coming. You, Breton, you’re lighter than either of us. Best that you go first and check if that is the best route. Ralof, stay here to see how she does.”

Aoife smiled grimly, but before another word could be said she leapt through the hole. Ralof, startled at her lack of hesitation, lost her for a moment in the smoke and flames. Moments later, though, he could see her waving at him, so the building had held and the woman knew how to jump. He nodded, but realising she probably wouldn’t be able to see the gesture from where she was, he yelled after her, “Keep going, we’ll follow when we can!” emphasising it by making ‘ _go on_ ’ gestures with his arm. Aoife seemed to understand and waved at him again before turning around and disappearing into the flames.

 _Talos go with you Aoife Dovahvrhan_ , he thought, turning to see where Ulfric had gotten to; all the while kicking himself for not realising sooner that Aoife still had her hands bound.

~o~

The ringing in Aoife’s ears slowly subsided, but a dull throb in her head remained to remind her of what she had just gone through. She heard voices, Nordic, male. It was the two with whom had shared her wagon, Ralof and Ulfric. The latter was now ungagged, and while he hadn’t said much, when he did speak his voice held power, power and passion; something told her to keep a wary eye on him.

Finally the Breton managed to gather the energy to try and stand, and the one who had saved her, Ralof, quickly came to help her up. Once she was standing, she took in her surroundings. They were inside one of the guard towers and it was quite dark, save for some light filtering in from one of the arrow slits higher up the stairs and the flickering of flames from underneath the now barred door.

Ulfric had said something about moving on and dragons and Imperials. She didn’t particularly care, but she would tag along for now; besides, she mused, this way she could probably get a better chance to come to terms with this state of consciousness.

They started moving up the tower, since that was the only route that remained open to them. Ralof was leading the way, with Ulfric coming up behind her. This caused her some uneasiness, but she could not place why. Before she could put more thought into the matter, they came to the next level of the tower, where she could make out another Nord sifting through rubble on the stairs ahead, beyond the muscular form of Ralof.

Before they could get any further though, a strange sensation overcame Aoife. Suddenly she felt as if another’s emotions were being channelled into her: anger, excitement, bloodlust and glee, more than she could ever remember having felt in her own, rather limited lifetime. The feelings were coming from outside the tower, along with an overwhelming intent to destroy and kill.

Without thought or rationalization she reached out and grabbed Ralof who had started to walk out onto the first floor of the tower. Using all her might she swung him around her, using her body as a counterweight. Caught off-guard, the powerful Nord stumbled around her, flying into the wall just in front of Ulfric. The look on his face was furious and what little she could see of his skin in the limited lighting was quickly turning red with anger, but before he could say anything, the tower shook and then the world around her heaved, light flooding in. It sounded as if the tower behind her ceased to exist and by how the look on Ralof’s face shifted from beetroot red to bleached-white, her assumption was not far off. Huddling against the wall with her hands over her head, she winced as several chunks of rocks bounced off her, more bruises to look forward to.

That’s when she heard it, in the roar. The words forming in her mind as well as her ears as the air behind her was heated to volcanic temperatures in milliseconds. _“Yol, Toor, Shul!”_

She heard the scream of the man that had been working at the rubble, smelt the burning of flesh. As one of the first experiences she’d recall, this was not one she’d wish to go through; then again, something told her none of her ‘first experiences’ were what someone would want go through, or what was even normal. Then there was nothing; the heat vanished as fast as it appeared and she heard the beating of massive wings just outside the tower, wind pushing down on her as they pushed their burden into the air.

Ralof was swearing profusely. Some part of her mind was taking notes, another was horrified and another was baffled at the vocabulary. But before it grew into too much of a distraction, the Nord patted her heartily on the shoulder; she looked up into his eyes, and the gratitude was clear on his face. But they, being warriors, didn’t waste another second, Ulfric had already gotten up and was motioning for them to move forward again.

Aoife stood and turned to take in the scene behind her. The man who had been there before was now a skeleton, the scorch on the wall showing the outline of his former body, now ashes around the crumpled bone structure. What had seemed like the tower coming down to her was merely a hole blasted into the wall with some of the stones still glowing from the earlier torrent of heat.

The Breton woman went to the hole, looking through it carefully. She could see that the dragon was now busy in other parts of the town, seemingly having assured itself that this part had been dealt with. There was smoke and flames everywhere, the occasional screams piercing the air amongst all the roars.

It was determined that Aoife would jump to the building nearest to them, a half burnt-down inn. She thought she should probably have felt some resentment at being treated in this disposable manner, but she couldn’t yet gather the emotions to care particularly much. Ralof seemed somewhat reluctant about the idea, but before anything further could be done on the matter, she took a small run-up and leapt out of the hole.

~o~

Freedom. The word embraced her mind the moment her foot left the tower’s floor. Everything seemed to slow down and she could feel the air pulling at her face, her hair, her whole body - weightless. Then reality came back; the heat of the flames below, the wreaths of smoke winding to the sky, gravity making itself known once more.

She looked at the wooden boards of the inn’s top floor rushing at her. It all seemed slightly detached, surreal; but she knew it was not. Her arms extended over her head, until she was as an arrow, flying at its target. Then her feet hit the planks; with instinct she didn’t know she possessed, her knees folded below her and her arms came down in one smooth motion allowing her to roll so that the entire energy of the jump was absorbed into a tumble.

Aoife looked around her; the flames had spared most of the building for now, only burning away part of the roof and outlying areas, but it would soon be razed if nothing was done to save it. She saw bottles of mead lying around, knocked from their places on the shelf. Those would become dangerous once the flames reached them; she reached down and gathered all those she could find, the binds making it that much more challenging, and threw them out of a window that was facing the town wall.

She walked a bit further into the building, then turned around and waved at Ralof to show that she had made it across well. Hopefully with the hazardous liquid disposed of they would be able to come through without having to risk exploding bottles. The man seemed decent to her, somewhat too idealistic and emotional, but decent.

He was waving for her to go on, shouting something, but the roaring of the fires and the dragon drowned out anything he was saying. The message his arms were giving though was quite clear, so she took the hint, turning to leave.

She headed further into the building, most routes blocked off by collapsed sections of the roof or fire, forcing her to head in one direction. Had the circumstances not been as chaotic as they were, she’d have thought someone were directing her route, but then, knowing the pantheons, the chances of one divine, daedric prince, or whatever other powerful entity taking an interest in a mortal was not too uncommon. She made her way past several rooms that seemed to be the bedrooms of the inn until there was a section of the floor that had fallen away, floorboards weakened by the flames or falling debris. She looked down the hole, which was in retrospect, not the wisest idea. Smoke billowed into her face and she choked; eyes watering, Aoife squinted through the black clouds. The floor was not aflame, yet; the smoke was most likely being channelled through the hole from some other room.

She dropped down, making sure not to touch the edges which were still glowing in some places, others splintered; she did not want to have to worry at a splinter while a dragon was breathing down her neck. The wall in front had also been broken down. She absently wondered if the dragon had maybe not just thrown something, or _someone_ through the building. But if that had been the case there was no longer anything lying around to back her theory.

Eyes and nose still running from the smoke. she could barely make out the form of another demolished building ahead of her. Huddling near the husk was an elderly man who looked at Aoife curiously, as if she was totally out of place. Then he looked to the side, her left, almost seeming to wait for something. As if to answer her, she heard a shout from where the man was looking. “Haming, you need to get over here, now!”

A boy, who could not yet have seen his tenth year, came running around the corner into the arms of the old man. The legionnaire who had been reading the names off the list earlier soon followed after. “Torolf,” he started saying, but Aoife saw a black form hurtle to the floor out of the sky, her view still obscured by the building, but she had no doubt of what it was. “Gods, everyone, get back!” the legionnaire yelled as he dived behind the building as well.

Then that voice entered Aoife’ head again, _“Yol, Toor, Shul!”_

Flames flowed around the house and down the road; the Breton quickly went to join the three others that had taken shelter behind the first house. Her eyes finally having stopped stinging from the smoke, she could see that the boy was crying, sobs wracking his body. The old man held onto him, seeming slightly helpless. She thought she had heard a scream cut short, just as the dragon had breathed out.

The legionnaire was looking at her, his expression unreadable. “Still alive prisoner?”

The dragon seemed to have exhausted that gout of flames and headed back to terrorise the skies. Seeing this, the legionnaire followed its course for a moment and then turned back to her. “Keep close to me if you want to stay that way.”

He turned to the aged man again. “Gunnar, take care of the boy. I have to find General Tullius and join the defence.”

The old man nodded, becoming grim. “Gods guide you, Hadvar.”

Nodding his farewell, the man known as Hadvar motioned that Aoife follow and rounded the building, running to clear the open road. She, not having any better ideas, followed as fast as she could. Odd, she thought. One moment she was not sure of her existence, the next she was running around, fighting for her survival. She thought it should bother her that she was not afraid, but in fact, starting to enjoy herself, but pushed that thought to the back of her mind for further examination when once she was no longer in mortal peril.

~o~

He wished he hadn’t been right. Of all the instincts and feelings his gut had given him over the years, why did it have to be right _today_. Not go as planned indeed.

These were Hadvar’s thoughts as he tried to get all the civilians out of danger, but he had been too late for too many. Many had perished, , not knowing why or how in the initial onslaught of the dragon. The panic that ensued had not helped; people frightened witless running through the streets were just easy prey to the flames from above.

Soldiers had not fared much better though, he thought grimly to himself. Trying to fight back was futile; the best they could do was to make sure as many got out safely as possible. He had seen how the arrows had bounced off the midnight scales, little more effective than a fly attacking a dog would have been. The garrison’s mage was also helpless; she was not an experienced master of the arcane. Instead she was a simple spellslinger who provided support and healing on the battlefield. Her firebolts and lightning were shrugged off as insignificant just as the arrows were. Oh, how he wished that they had some of those new bows the legion had started using, it was said that they could penetrate plate-mail at a hundred yards; maybe those would have been able to break through the impervious black armour of the dragon.

He was trying to get Haming off the open street when he saw a black flicker in the corner of his eye. “Torolf!” he shouted to the other legionnaire accompanying him, motioning at the sky. Not waiting to see what his fellow soldier did, he ran to where he had directed Haming go.

The ground shook. He glanced over his shoulder to see the dragon had landed where he had been moments before; this just spurred him onto greater speed. “Gods, everyone, get back!” he shouted, praying Haming had done as instructed.

He rounded the ruined building that he had left Gunnar waiting behind and dived out of the road, just in time to miss the flames as they flooded the area. Another person joined them as the dragonfire stopped and he could make out the beat of massive wings, fading away once more. He looked to see if it was Torvar, who had somehow made it out of the road in time, but it wasn’t.

It was a woman who had come out of the flaming inn behind them, tendrils of smoke still clinging to her worn tunic as if reluctant to let go. He knew all of the inhabitants of Helgen and she was certainly not one of them, although she seemed familiar; she looked at him, golden eyes reflecting the flickering flames around them and yet seeming to have a fire of their own.

He would later wonder how he had not immediately recognised her; she was a diamond among coal when it came to physical appeal, sure to make even Jarl Elesif green with envy. It had to be the eyes; he had heard it said that they were the windows to the soul, but never had he seen any that would concrete his belief in that saying being to be true such as these, and this soul was ancient. The woman was that Breton prisoner who had been about to be executed when the dragon attacked; that too, was something to think about.

“Still alive, prisoner?” He asked rhetorically, scanning the skies. “Keep close to me if you want to stay that way.”

It looked like she had gone through quite a lot just to make it this far; several bruises were starting to show on the skin that was bare, tears had also formed in the already revealing, rather pitiful garb she was wearing, and soot and ash stains covered her from head to toe. Marks on her face indicated where rivulets of tears had pushed aside the dirt and ash, probably from all the smoke. He wondered what impression she would give if dressed in finery, since even in her current state her stature screamed nobility.

She nodded grimly in response to his question. Hadvar then looked over to the two others there. “Gunnar, take care of the boy. I have to find General Tullius and join the defence.” _As if there is anything anyone could do to defend from that monster_ , a voice in his mind mocking what he had just said.

The older man simply nodded. “Gods guide you, Hadvar.” He then bodily picked up Haming, who had started crying, and began moving towards a gap between the ruined building and the town wall.

Hadvar didn’t waste any time; he motioned that the should woman follow him as he got up and headed back towards the road. Their best chance of survival was to spread out, he thought; the dragon’s attacks would be too devastating on a concentrated group, not to mention they would be far easier targets.

They dashed across the open space, heading towards an alley between the garrison wall and another ruined building. Cover. Buildings were hazardous if a dragon attacked while you were inside, but you could use them to stay out of its line of sight, meaning a far greater chance of survival. They reached the alley without drawing any attention, but the way ahead was blocked off once they got past the first house. The second had been crushed, and most of the timbers from its roof were now lying in the alley.

Turning to the gap between the two houses, Hadvar saw another legionnaire there; he was using a bow and valiantly shooting arrows in the air. The Nord was about to go to the man and tell him to stop making himself a target, when the Breton put her hands on his shoulder, holding him back. He gave her a questioning look; she shook her head, a sad but hard look in her eyes. He brushed off her hand and was about to head over to the man regardless when the world around them seemed to turn on its head.

The dragon landed on the wall right next to them; with a bellow it released a torrent of fire in a cone before it. Hadvar heard several screeches of pain and then more shouting. The dragon pushed itself into the air once more and continued circling the town, gouts of fire licking at any that were close enough. The legionnaire pushed himself to his knees; the wind caused by the landing and take-off of the dragon had pushed him to the ground. He looked to see what had happened to the archer; he wished he hadn’t. There where the man had been standing was now just a pair of standard-issue leather boots with their edge charred. Out of them were sticking the remains of bones, nothing else.

~o~

Ralof wondered what had happened to the Breton. The man Risa had been trying to help had not made it and while it was never easy to have a man die in one’s arms, Ulfric had made sure that they retain at least some semblance of objectivity.

They had not taken the same route as Aoife had, since the section of the inn she had travelled through had already collapsed by the time they made to jump out of the tower. Once again a woman had taken the lead, with Risa going first and then Ulfric; they had made space for Ralof to jump to, but as he had landed, the floor collapsed beneath him. Fortunately he did not sustain any major injuries, the floor having absorbed most of his fall, and then the table on the next breaking to slow his decent even further.

He had lost sight of the other two; flames were now licking at the hole he had made and smoke was eagerly rushing out of its new escape. Ralof picked himself up, brushing off the ash and pieces of wood, then seeing a nearby window dived through it, out of the condemned building. His ordeal had awarded him with a few minor burns and singed his beard, but other than that there had been little damage he had sustained aside from the abrasions caused by his less-than-graceful landing after clearing the window.

The Nord took a moment to take in his surroundings; most of the town was now beyond saving, the dragon still making passes at any unfortunate enough to be singled out. But just as before, the rampant destruction also had its benefits. Looking back to the courtyard where they were supposed to have been executed, Ralof could see that the gates to the garrison keep’s inner courtyard were now barely hanging on their hinges, thanks to the roaring fire that had taken the wagons.

He looked around at the corpses littering the area and then he found what he was looking for, an axe. Prying it from the stiffening grip of the man holding it, he took a moment to inspect it. It was made of iron, the craftsmanship was nothing amazing, but it was good enough to fulfil its intended purpose, most likely it had been forged to quickly satisfy some bulk order. Quantity over quality.

Hefting it to test the balance he grunted, satisfied, and then swung it at the gate. Chunks of charred wood were sent flying as the powerful man swung the axe again and again, aiming for the areas around the hinges holding up the massive wooden barrier. The gate groaned; he should be through in no time.


	5. Into the Bowels

Ralof chuckled to himself as he leaned against a table in the antechamber of Helgen Keep, trying to catch his breath after the recent ordeal. Across from him was Aoife, slumped on the floor and amazingly, still with her hands bound.

It had taken longer than he had planned to work through the inner courtyard gate’s hinges, but at the time he had reasoned it would have been easier than fighting through the whole garrison of Imperial soldiers and a dragon. In the end he had weakened it enough so that when an unearthly knell shook everything the gate fell off the hinges thanks to its own weight.

On the other side he had been surprised to see Aoife again; he had said to her that their best chance would be to head into the keep, since that would offer the best protection from the dragon, when Hadvar had come running up from behind her. They had exchanged challenges, but the situation would not allow for them to come to blows. Hadvar had kept running to a farther away wing of the keep, also telling the Breton to follow him.

Ralof had not waited to see what her choice was; there was a dragon killing everyone after all. Despite this, he was relieved that Aoife had chosen to come with him. Maybe it was just to spite the Empire or maybe it was some part of him knew that it was good to be on good terms with her. Especially considering how she had saved him from being incinerated in the tower earlier.

The sounds of the chaos from outside were muffled now that the door was closed; he had barred it just in case any Imperials thought to come at them from behind. He hoped Ulfric had found a way out of this place of death.

Looking around, Ralof saw that there were two passages leading out of the room, one must lead to where Hadvar had run off to, probably the barracks, the other, likely to the store room or dungeon. Then something caught his eye; there was a booted foot sticking out from under the table he had been leaning on. Jumping back from it he crouched to see who it was.

He recognised the poor sod; it was Gunjar. He had clearly not made it into the keep before tangling with any Imperials, with a large gash running across his face in addition to an arrow sticking out of his chest. That he had made it this far in that condition was a testament to his hardiness, but in the end, it was not enough.

The sight of the corpse reminded Ralof that they were still in danger, despite the thick walls and door. He looked over to the Breton woman; she seemed to have recovered as well, having stood up and no longer breathing as heavily as before. He motioned to her. “Come here, those binds won’t undo themselves.”

She walked over, holding her hands outstretched, and the Stormcloak used a knife he had picked up from the table to cut the thick rope. Aoife rubbed the circulation back into her wrists as the bonds fell to the floor. Noting that her hands were quite smooth, if not as smooth as a noble’s, they were distinctly lacking in callouses; this made Ralof wonder what it was that the woman was by trade.

From her athletic build he knew she could not be of the middle-class, who usually spent most of their lives cooped up in towns. While not lacking in bearing, she did not have the same pride or lack of blemishes that would denote one of the upper class, and while she did not seem to abhor the dirt that covered her, or feel uncomfortable in the rags that she wore, she did not carry herself, or was as rough as the lower class. This meant that she was either a mercenary, bandit, soldier, or of lesser nobility, those that could not afford to have themselves waited on hands and feet, but were still not required to do everything themselves, like a thane. That scar along her jaw was particularly interesting.

The Nord was pulled out of his thoughts when he noticed that Aoife was looking at him, as if trying to read him, just as he had been her. He coughed nervously, realising that this was hardly a place to dawdle as they were. “Have a look through Gunjar’s gear there. He won’t be needing it again anytime soon. I’ll see if any of these gates open.”

Ralof kept half an eye on Aoife as he moved to try the first gate; she had pulled the dead man from under the table without too much trouble, it seemed, a feat for any woman, and then proceeded to look him over. Trying the gate, he had headed to, Ralof realised that there was nothing he’d be able to do to open it without a key; it was locked tight and the Legion was a stickler for maintenance, so the masonry and ironwork of the gate were in too good a condition to try breaking through. Sometimes he wished he knew how to use the lock picks he had stashed in his boot. “Not getting out that way,” he mumbled, heading to the other one.

By now Aoife had managed to work the leather jerkin and mail off of Gunjar, leaving only his underclothes on. She worked amazingly fast, using the knife Ralof had used earlier to free her to cut off excess leather from the jerkin. She slipped into the mail, frowning that it was much more a dress for her than it had been for the dead Nord, but swiftly pulling the jerkin over it, which after her handiwork seemed to fit a great deal better, blood stains aside.

As Ralof neared the second gate he thought he heard noises coming from further down that corridor; stopping to listen more carefully he thought he heard a scuffle take place and then silence. After a short while came a female voice barking orders, one that sounded all too familiar, the captain that had been presiding over the execution. Then there was the sound of a door being unbarred and opened.

Ralof quickly turned and motioned at Aoife, whispering loudly, “Quick, hide, Imperials coming this way, maybe we can catch them off-guard.”

Aoife quietly moved to the other side of the doorway from where Ralof was crouching and readied the dagger; she had her back pressed to the wall and seemed to be waiting for the same signals he was. The quick rapport of military boots making their way down the corridor, the curt commands issued by the captain, the pulling of a lever that would set the counterweight in motion to open the gate they were coming from.

Aoife signalled to Ralof that she would take the captain; he could deal with her escorts. He nodded, wondering what the Breton had planned. Before he could give the matter any thought the gate opened smoothly, the sound of chains clanking in the background as they lifted the small portcullis. Then the captain stepped into the room, walking briskly.

Before the Redguard could take another step though, Aoife seemed to flow from behind the door’s arch where she had been waiting. One arm came around the captain’s head to clasp her jaw, dagger held in the hand of the other; the one moved to expose the throat, the other smoothly ran the knife across it. Blood gushed as the woman slowly collapsed to the ground, gurgling.

Ralof almost didn’t do his part, mesmerised  by how the Breton had just killed someone so simply, but making it seem like a dance. The legionnaires with the captain had been caught more off-guard than he had been. To them it must have seemed as if a shadow had become corporeal and taken the captain into a lover’s embrace. Ralof quickly moved to take advantage of that; he swung the axe he had liberated earlier across the throat of the one soldier, hardly as graceful as his partner had been, but still the man fell to the ground choking. The other he hit squarely on the helmet, trying his best to make the movement a continuous one for maximum lethality, but the hacking at the gate earlier had taken its toll on the axe, now far too blunted to cleave through armour effectively, it merely dented it horrendously, caving in the man’s skull.

Ralof looked at the axe’s edge; they were reliable weapons in that their mere shape allowed them to be dangerous, but this one would definitely benefit from an appointment with a grindstone. He looked over to Aoife who had carefully put the captain’s body down, as if she were asleep. The Breton was now unbuckling the Redguard’s boots, which drew Ralof’s eye to notice that she had been wearing mere cloth wrapped around her feet all this time. Seeing that he was looking at her she nodded at him, as if indicating that he had done good work with the two other legionnaires. It was odd, the Nord thought, how as soon as it had come to a combat situation, she had seemingly grown into a position of control and that without saying a single word.

_Aoife Dovahvrhan, who are you?_

~o~

They had liberated a key from the three now-dead legionnaires that unlocked the door Ralof had checked first. Just as well, he thought, the way through which the soldiers had come no doubt just led back outside, to more legion and the dragon.

 

The passage led down, beneath the keep itself it seemed. As they travelled further, it became apparent that Helgen Keep did not follow any specific rules when it came to general layout. They came upon a store-room, where two soldiers set upon them. Aoife had liberated the captain of her gladius, and even without taking them by surprise the two men were easily overwhelmed. Ralof pitied them, young men, still full of the fire of youth and ignorant of the machinations of the ones they served, for all intents and purposes throwing themselves onto the blades of a nobody and a Stormcloak, both who had seemingly seen their fair share of bloodshed.

 

The Nord indicated that some of the barrels should contain the garrison’s healing potion stores; Aoife rummaged through some of the items that seemed to have been thrown into a corner and re-emerged with several leather belt-pouches and two packs, which she promptly began filling with the little red vials.

 

While she was doing that, Ralof rifled through what the soldiers had on them. A muffled roar sifted in from outside, causing the Stormcloak to look up at the ceiling. It was faint, but he could make out that there was the occasional tremor that knocked particles of dust and spiders from their ancient hiding places atop the wooden roof-supports.

 

Aoife shoved one of the packs into his arms and held out a belt with pouches. Ralof saw that she had already strapped on a similar belt, in addition to a makeshift bandolier and the pack. It seemed like she was going for the ‘the more straps the better’ look and he would have joked about it had they not been in the circumstances that they were; in fact when he put on the belt he felt it was more like Aoife was going for a ‘the more healing potions, the better’ approach, judging by it and the pack’s weight.

 

There was a doorway leading deeper into the fort from the storeroom, which seemed odd, considering you normally didn’t want to show everyone what the state of your supplies was and if you were to lead someone to a destination beyond the storeroom, you would have to do so.

 

Just as they entered the passage, sounds of fighting could be heard from further down the way. Drawing their weapons, Ralof and Aoife hastened forwards. They came upon a room which had several cages standing along the one side, on the other was a counter that had bars separating it from the rest of the chamber. Clearly this was the keep’s dungeon.

 

The sounds of conflict were being made by a small group in the centre where two Imperials and a Stormcloak woman were clashing; at the feet of the Stormcloak lay the bleeding body of another rebel. For now she was holding her own, but she would soon be overwhelmed. Ralof let forth a wordless war-cry and charged in, Aoife followed closely behind.

 

The Nord’s sudden onset startled the two legionnaires, allowing the other Stormcloak a short respite. Ralof was swinging the axe at the soldier in front of him and Aoife moved to make sure that he would not be flanked. The wild swinging was surprisingly effective as the axe glanced off the sword of the legionnaire as he tried to block a blow but the axe still managed to get buried deeply in the unfortunate man’s shoulder. He fell, letting forth a horrible scream, blood gushing from the wound.

 

The other Imperial jumped back as he saw his companion fall to the floor, hands starting to glow blue. Aoife saw it, and looked at the man again actually seeing him this time. That was no mere legionnaire; he was wearing the studded armour most grunts wore, true, but he was also wearing a hood, and what could be seen of his face from its darkness was scarred and wrinkled; he was far older than normal regulations would have allowed a soldier to be.

 

She was about to warn Ralof, but there was no need, he had already noticed the unnatural glow himself. The Nord threw himself to the side, trying to find cover behind one of the pillars. He almost made it.

 

Sparks played around the old man’s fingers as the static built up. Then bands of electricity appeared, connecting the legionnaire’s hands and Ralof, miniature lightning bolts played across the big man’s jerkin and mail. The scent of burnt leather filled Aoife’s nostrils.

 

The Breton shouted out as her companion was thrown across the room. Heedless of the consequences, she ran into the blue stream, cutting off the torrent that had been assaulting Ralof. The hooded man cackled a mean, hateful sound; clearly he was no stranger to inflicting pain and enjoying it.

Aoife gritted her teeth as the sparks played across her, causing muscles to spasm and ache. The man started to close in on her, the current getting stronger with every step he took. Aoife was down on one knee now, teeth gritting against the pain.

 

“What an _interesting_ specimen I have been given to play with.” the hooded man said. The tone of his voice would have sent a chill down Aoife’ spine had the lightning not been afflicting her. The Breton grimaced as another jolt coursed through her body.

 

The man was now standing over her, leering at her face. “My, my, a pretty one too; pity that you should come to me under these circumstances.”

 

~o~

 

Quentin Surrenius was having a bad day. He had heard that Ulfric Stormcloak had been captured, which would mean an end to the rebellion, and an end to a supply of ‘patients’ for his ‘treatment.’ The last one he’d had, had been that miserable excuse of a mage that now lay lifeless in the middle cage. Hardly a victim worthy of his attention, since the man had wet his pants before Quentin had even taken his gloves off.

 

The general hadn’t even allowed him to have one of the Stormcloaks to play with; such a waste, all those executions. He’d resolved to go watch them himself from the wall. Perhaps their deaths would afford him some entertainment, even if it would have been a greatly watered-down version of what he had in mind when it came to such things. Then the dragon attacked.

 

Now he had spent his fair share of time on battlefields, so he knew how to stay alive when the chaotic throes of disaster struck, but the monster that attacked now was too great an unknown, too unpredictable, and Quentin had no intention of dying just yet. So as soon as the dragon had crashed down onto the tower overlooking the execution, Quentin had run for the keep. It had been quiet for a while, but that changed fast, sounds of the mayhem outside drifting down through the passages and windows of the building.

 

Quentin had made his way to his lair, the dungeon. There he plied his trade as torturer, to extract all the little secrets that his victims had. He loved his job. There had been times in his life where he didn’t feel at home among others who would give him odd looks and whisper when they thought he couldn’t hear them about his ‘interests.’ But once he had proven that even he could be of use to the great machine that was the legion and had almost gotten an official position to do what he did, he no longer cared what others thought. As long as they kept the victims coming.

 

Clearly the chaos that the monster above had caused had given the captives the perfect opportunity to try and escape. So it had not taken long before a legionnaire came down to the dungeon with two captives in tow, who had been re-captured. Quentin thought that it was foolish to re-capture them. The practical thing to do would have been to kill them, who knows what havoc they might wreak if the chaos continued to spread as it was. But he didn’t mind; maybe he’d even get a chance to play with them later.

 

Unfortunately, before they could be herded into the cells, the male one lunged out at the legionnaire, tackling him to the ground. Quentin had stepped back, unsure of what to do yet. The woman prisoner had run to the weapon rack on the wall and armed herself with a shortsword. By the time she was back though her companion had already been gravely wounded by the legionnaire, who had stabbed him with a dagger and pushed him off himself. Then two more charged into the room.

 

And that was how he had gotten to where he was now. The legionnaire dead, One Stormcloak dead, one smoking and probably unconscious in the corner and another leaning exhausted against a pillar. Not to mention the beauty before him now, oh how perfect her skin, how sculpted her features. The aggression and passion she had used to defend her companion. Quentin looked forward to playing with her, oh how she strived to stand against his torrent of lightning, oh how she tried vainly not to cry out.

 

He was standing over her now, lightning coursing from his hands over her. He looked into her face, the determination was delicious! But then something changed, something about the posture of her shoulders went from tensing, trying not to spasm uncontrollably, to almost relaxed. The torturer looked at her again and saw that she was no longer trying to fight him off, no more determination, no more clenched teeth.

 

Instead she seemed perfectly confident, relaxed, eyes closed. The Imperial doubled his assault, combining the torrents from his hands into one; he could smell her clothes starting to melt and burn in places. She would not defy him so!

 

Slowly her hair seemed to lose its colour, first at the tips, but the bleaching rapidly spread to the roots, until it was so pale it almost seemed to emit its own light. Then she stood up, the motion slow and deliberate, seemingly unaffected by the lightning. The torturer stepped back, stumbling over the uneven cobble flooring. “No! What are you doing?! Get back down!”

 

But the woman seemed not to be listening. Once she was standing again she reached out an arm and all the electricity seemed to focus on it, still running across her body, but now instead of assaulting it, seeming to caress it. She opened her eyes; Quentin had not noted what colour they had been earlier, but they were no longer the same. Now they were as black as the abyss, seeming to absorb all light. She looked at her outstretched arm, seemingly curious. Then she clenched her other hand into a claw and the electricity seemed to flow from all over her body into it, focusing into an orb that hovered slightly above it.

 

She looked to her other hand that now held the orb, then she looked over to Quentin, black eyes seeming to suck him in; her expressionless face, the apathy, frightened him more than anything he had ever thought possible. “No! You can’t do this! Die! Why won’t you die?!”

 

The torturer exerted all the magika he could into the stream of lightning; he knew he had reached his limits by the fatigue that tugged at him, at the charring of his fingertips, but he continued to push, this abomination had to die! The woman merely slung the arm holding the orb forward, and the rest of the static over her body seemed to be drawn along with it until it speared out into a single brilliant bolt hitting Quentin in the chest.

 

~o~

 

When Ralof came to he thought he saw Aoife leaning over him; no, the hair was all wrong and the eyes too. He tenderly shifted into a sitting position, and then squinted back up at the figure. He then noticed she was holding a hand on his arm as if ready to hold him up should he fall over.

 

“Are you alright? That wizard sent you flying right across the room.” She looked over her shoulder towards the centre of the room. “Your friend took the brunt of his attack though, ran right in front of him when he attacked you. I don’t know who, or what, she is, but he didn’t stand a chance.” The woman looked back at Ralof. “She might be in a bad way after that, but magic like that can’t be normal and I thought you might know what to do better.”

 

Then things started slotting into place in Ralof’s mind, the woman leaning over him was the Stormcloak they had rushed in to defend, and according to what she said they had gone up against a wizard. He had thought the hooded man was up to no good once that light started forming in his hands and had dived to the side. But it had not been soon enough, as the scorched leather and occasional melted link of chain mail he now wore attested. After that everything had gone blank.

 

The woman said his friend, did she mean Aoife? Had Aoife gone against a mage head on and won? Something like that was almost unheard of. Ralof clumsily pushed himself to his feet, the Stormcloak had said she was not sure _what_ Aoife was, what did that mean?

 

The Nord didn’t have to wonder long, since at seeing the expression on his face she started recounting what she had seen. How Aoife had jumped up in between him and the Imperial, how he had seemingly been toying with her, how her hair and manner had suddenly changed and she defeated him. It all seemed slightly far-fetched to Ralof, but when he reached the middle of the room he had to reconsider again what he actually knew of Aoife.

 

There she was - lying crumpled up on the floor. At her feet was the Imperial soldier he had killed in their initial charge; he remembered the wound he had delivered and it might not actually have been fatal, or at least immediately fatal, but now the man was dead. His skin bore several scorch marks and the armour was fused together in several places. It looked like even his eyes had burst from the heat.

 

Several paces in front of Aoife was a pile of ash, probably all that remained of the wizard. She, on the other hand, didn’t seem to bear any visible markings from the ordeal aside from her unconscious state, although Ralof supposed he could not vouch for what was under her makeshift armour and all the ash stains.

 

He went over to her, and her hair was the same shade of black as it had ever been; the Nord wondered if the pressure and exhaustion the other woman had been under had made her delirious. Ralof coaxed one of the healing potions she had packed for them down her throat and quickly swallowed one himself as he threw another vial to the other woman, who had gone to check on her former companion. She nodded her thanks wearily; the older warrior jerked his head in the direction of Aoife. “Don’t thank me, thank her. She’s the one that got our walking alchemist’s store going.”

  
The battle had lasted too long and the wound too grievous, so the Stormcloak soldier who had been stabbed had not survived long enough for them to minister to his wounds. They could still hear sounds filtering in from above; Ralof wondered if there was even anything left for the dragon to destroy. But such thoughts would not keep them alive, so he passed his and Aoife’s pack to the woman they had saved and hoisted the unconscious Breton onto his back. She had saved his life twice now and by Shor he would not leave her behind now. Thus burdened, they delved deeper into the keep, praying that its illogical construction would be their boon.


	6. Road to Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally uploaded this chapter as 5, if anyone was confused by the jump in the plot, that would have been why.

Sunlight filtered in through the ancient trees, bees lazily meandering from flower to flower; a fresh breeze stirred the grass and leaves of the Great Forest as Kynareth caressed the slopes leading from Lake Rumere. All of this seemed to be lost on the figure that was trudging along the road that cut through the forest, its attention focused on something clasped in its hand. The figure continued along the mossy cobbles of the road in this manner for a short while before pocketing whatever it had been studying.

Alexander looked up at the sapphire blue skies; everything seemed so peaceful, all in such stark contrast to what he had experienced just a day ago and what those events would no doubt lead to. The Emperor was dead; the world seemed oblivious to it just yet, but once the news spread no doubt the Empire would be shaken to its foundations. Sure there had been assassinations before, but never a whole bloodline.

The Nord was also still mulling over another matter, that of his existence. He had just woken up in an Imperial prison cell with no memory of anything prior. The very prison cell the Emperor and his guards had fled through to try and elude the assassins. What he found stranger still was how, despite this lack of memory, he had a very good general knowledge of Tamriel. It was as if he had learned everything that was needed to be able to survive and then forgotten the source.

He had followed the Emperor’s party and even helped them fight off the cultists that had attacked. The Emperor himself, Uriel Septim, Alexander didn’t know how, but he knew that was his name, had eventually given him some talk about destiny, given him a pendant and instructions to find a Jouffrey at this Weynon Priory place.

It had taken him a while to get his bearings after coming out of the sewers that the tunnels from the cell had eventually led to. But he had simply followed the wall of the city until he reached the harbour; there he purchased a map with gold he had found in all kinds of strange places while following the Emperor. He noticed that he did get several odd looks, which he did not bother to pay any heed; he was after all wearing armour he had salvaged from a goblin lair he had come across during a small detour, and it was hardly in the best or cleanest condition.

After rounding another bend in the road, several stone buildings came into view; no doubt this was that Priory the Emperor had mentioned. Alexander once again pulled out the amulet he had been given. It was pure gold and had a large ruby set in the centre, with the most intricate designs he had ever seen; granted he had not seen many, but his intuition told him that it was of craftsmanship that would be found nowhere else on Mundus. It obviously had some magical properties since it wouldn’t stay around his neck if he tried to wear it, always slipping off.

Prying his eyes from the item he pocketed it again and headed towards the nearest building; he raised his hand to knock when everything went white.

~o~

Aoife woke with a start. First she noticed that it was cold, drastically different from the comfortable weather she thought she had just been experiencing. Next she noticed that all her bits were back to how she was used to them being. So _that_ was how being a man felt like, and suddenly certain mannerisms made so much more sense. Then she noticed that she was sitting on the ground, almost comfortably had it not been for how hard it was, that she was aching everywhere, and that she was not alone.

Ralof had been looking over the valley that lay before them, admiring how the sun sparkled off the lake at its centre. Surprisingly their ordeal had only lasted a few hours and it was only late morning, with the sun halfway to its zenith. Hearing Aoife rousing herself he turned back to where he had put her just outside a cave entrance. “It may be getting old for me to say this, but it’s good to see you awake.”

Aoife groaned, clutching her head as she tried to remember what had happened. Ah, yes, the execution and the dragon. After that, events had taken place so quickly; the last thing she remembered was the dungeon and jumping in between the soldier and Ralof. After that, the big forest, mild weather and being a man? Now she was back here in Skyrim, in her own body, and confused.

It had seemed as though the man had had the same problem as her with his memory. Perhaps she could seek him out at some point and find out why she had shared that experience and whether he knew anything about the blank slate that was her past. His name had been Alexander and he was a Nord, not much to go on, but it was better than nothing.

She tried to stand up, but the effort proved too great; her limbs seemed sapped of all of their strength, not to mention the pain. She crashed back down into a seated position. Ralof quickly came to kneel down next to her and dug around in a pack that lay on the ground, pulling out a healing potion and handing it over. “By Talos, I don’t know where we’d be by now if you hadn’t set us up with those potions like you did. I’d never have thought to think ahead like that.”

He watched as she choked down the vile-tasting tonic; it never failed to amaze him how quickly people recovered after imbibing one of them. Aoife tossed the empty vial aside and gingerly tried to stand again. Ralof offered a hand and she gratefully took it as he pulled her up onto her feet. Once she was standing she rolled her neck and shoulders to work out the cricks. She blinked several times, absorbing the breath-taking scenery. “How- how did we get here?”

Ralof was taken back at the sound of her voice; she hadn’t spoken since giving her name to Hadvar at Helgen and then he hadn’t been close enough then to hear clearly. But it was warm and rich; it carried the same weight as the look her eyes gave. He was so surprised at hearing her for the first time that he almost forgot to answer her question. “Uh, oh yes, you jumped in front of that wizard when he attacked me, and thank you for that. It seems you have a knack for saving my life,” he chuckled. “He still managed to get a glancing blow at me though, tossed me right against the wall. Took a while for me to get back up from that…Hilda - the woman that had been under attack - said that you did some great magic and killed him. Nothing was left but a pile of ash, and by the looks of things he did a number on you too.” Ralof pointed at Aoife’s attire; the leather of her jerkin was scorched black with the chain mail underneath showing through in many places and on that there were numerous places where the links had fused together.

The Breton looked at herself, seeming somewhat shocked at how much damage it had seemed she had sustained. Ralof continued his narrative. “We were too late to save her companion, but continued down the passage where the proper cells were. I had to carry you since whatever you did put you out cold like a bear in hibernation. Hilda took the packs and we found a hole in the wall of the keep’s aqueduct to a natural cave that eventually led here. After that she headed back with one of the packs, said she wanted to see if she could meet up with Ulfric and the others.”

The Nord looked at Aoife to see what her reaction would be. She seemed to silently absorb what he had said and mull it over. Finally she looked up at him. Ralof only then realised how short she actually was compared to him: quite tall for a Breton, but she was still almost head-and-a-half shorter than him. “Well, Ralof, was it?” He nodded. “I’m Aoife, and I’d give you a backstory, but as far as I know I don’t have one. So by all means, since I don’t know the lay of the land I’ll let you take point.”

Ralof looked at her quizzically; what did she mean by not knowing if she has a backstory? But she probably had a point with him leading them; he had after all grown up in this area. “If we hurry we should be able to make it to Riverwood by late noon, my sister Gerdur owns the lumber mill there. She’ll give us shelter and something to eat. Then we can decide what to do next.”

Aoife nodded and began to check if she was ready to set out. She had lost her sword, no doubt when she had confronted the mage, but hopefully she wouldn’t need it again soon. The pouches on the belts she had strapped on earlier still held a few potions, some of the bottles had broken and had to be disposed of but she still had enough to be comfortable with. Ralof picked up the pack and they set off.

The cave had not been far from the road that led from Helgen to Riverwood, but as they were about to step onto it a shadow blacked out the sun. Both Ralof and Aoife stepped back into the cover of a nearby pine. As the dragon that had attacked earlier swooped over them, not close enough to brush the tree-tops, but close enough so that they bent from the wind it caused. It roared, flying into the valley before them and disappearing over the ridge of the opposing mountains.

Seeing the danger had passed, the pair emerged from the pine’s shadows, scanning the sky where the beast had disappeared to. Ralof sighed in relief. “We better move before the Imperials come looking for us or that dragon comes back.” Aoife merely nodded and they set off down the road towards Riverwood.

While they walked, Ralof mentioned various concerns about their circumstances, their most pressing  was to try and avoid any contact with Imperial forces, but hopefully word from Helgen had yet to spread, which would afford them a day or two before the hills would be swarming with legion. The road wound down from the foothills of the Jerall Mountains in which Helgen was situated, until they reached three pillars.

Noting Aoife’s curious looks Ralof walked over to them. “These are the Guardian Stones, three of a whole bunch dotted around Skyrim.” He pointed at the carvings in the ancient rock. “Each represents a constellation, and may grant you a boon attributed to that star sign. Personally I have always relied on the Warrior.” The Nord placed his hand on the stone and a pale beam shot down from the sky, suffusing him before fading. “The other two are the Mage and the Thief.” He motioned towards them with one arm. “I believe that the Warrior is the path of glory and honour, but each to their own.”

The Breton walked over to the stones, looking at each in turn. Finally she set her hand on the Warrior Stone as well. But unlike with Ralof, nothing happened. She frowned and moved to try the same on the other stones with similar results – none of them reacted to her touch. Ralof was watching all of this with a frown; why did the stones not react to her? Every Nord made the journey to one of the stones on their sixteenth nameday, usually the stone of the star sign they had been born under, and in all his life Ralof had never heard of a stone not react to someone, even to someone that had not been born under that constellation.

“Say, Breton, what sign were you born under?”

Aoife looked at him with a brow raised. “No idea, I have no memory of anything before waking in the carriage…some flashes of places that are probably half a continent away, but anything else is a blank slate.” She tapped her temple as if half expecting her head to ring hollowly.

This deepened Ralof’s frown. _What had the Imperials done with the woman?_

Her face cracked into a broad grin. “Come now don’t give me that look; I’m half expecting all of your hair to turn grey and fall out. Or maybe some comment about ‘the good ol’ days’ and back pains.”

The Nord couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Ah never mind the stones. Perhaps the gods have something more planned out for you than what is written in the stars.” He patted her heartily on the shoulder and put an arm around her back, steering them back to the road. “Best we get on the way to Riverwood anyway, before it gets dark.”

Suddenly they heard a howl from the forest that hugged the mountain on the other side of the road - wolves. The jovial mood disappeared as Ralof tensed up, eyes scanning the trees nearest them. Aoife put her hand on the place where her sword used to be, forgetting that she had lost it. The move was not lost on Ralof; the woman kept exhibiting signs of a fighter. He handed her the dagger from earlier again and walked over to the side of the road opposite from where the howls had come from. There he used his axe to sever one of the sturdier limbs of a tree that was still growing in between the river and the road, stripping it of smaller branches and foliage before tossing it to Aoife. She caught it and deftly began chipping at one of its ends with the dagger, sharpening it to a point as fast she could.

Another howl sounded, this time far closer; the wolves were closing in on them. They might have just been that unlucky to stumble across a hunting pack, or perhaps it had been the scent of blood on their clothes. But somehow neither of the two companions doubted that the canines were coming for them, and in broad daylight too.

The two humans were at a disadvantage. The direction that the wolves were coming from was uphill from them and the steep slope of the foothills had caused some of the rocks to splinter into what were almost gigantic ledges, allowing the wolves the advantage of attacking from the high ground. The pair would have to be prepared for enemies jumping at their heads from the man-and-a-half high ledges.

As the noises of Aoife’s chipping died away and they both settled into a position of readiness where they could cover each other’s backs, it became apparent that there was now an oppressive silence reigning over the area; even the nearby river seemed to be somewhat muted, the rustling of the leaves having died away and any other noise seemingly magnified: the rustling of a rabbit in the undergrowth, the buzzing of dragonflies, the call of an eagle. The two humans’ eyes darted to try and verify the source of each new noise, attempting to anticipate the location of their stalkers.

Aoife felt a rivulet of cold sweat run down her collar; her eyes darted from tree to tree, bush to bush on the opposing side of the road. She glanced at Ralof to see that he was also scanning the treeline, she was about to do the same when she saw his eyes widen. She quickly turned to look at what had elicited this reaction, and just in time too. From the ledge, a large dark shape hurled itself at Aoife; she turned her makeshift spear in its direction, bracing the other end against the ground. The beast was unable to halt its momentum in mid-air and impaled itself upon the spike, whimpering as it weakly struggled.

Another wolf pounced from the undergrowth as soon as the first one attacked. This one headed towards Ralof, who stepped to the side so that it landed between him and his companion instead of goring him in the chest as it would have had he not moved. Before it could recover, he swung down his axe, lodging it in the nape of its neck.

While the two other wolves pounced, another had circled around as the two humans were occupied. As soon as Aoife abandoned the now wolf-laden spear it pounced at her. She grabbed the powerful creature by the throat as it tried to rend her with its teeth. Ralof cursed, abandoning his axe still stuck in the other wolf as he grabbed the one on top of Aoife by the scruff and tried to get it off her.

The Breton was pushing at it with all her might, wishing she could get a hand free to grab the dagger in her belt, but it was all she could do to keep its teeth away from her as it was. Her muscles were slowly starting to feel heavy under all the strain, as the acid built up from all the constant exertion. Funny, she thought; after surviving an execution, an army and a dragon, her demise would come at the teeth of a beast.

Ralof was amazed at the size of this animal they were struggling with. Never had he seen a wolf of its size or strength, and to top it off he could swear that he heard more growling from the trees over the beast’s shoulder. Aoife was struggling valiantly, but the wolf’s claws were ripping into her arms and he could see she was growing tired.

Suddenly the wolf’s struggling became panicked instead of frenzied and the scent of burning hair reached Ralof’s nose. It stopped trying to maul Aoife and instead tried to get away from her. Ralof let go of the woman to see that her palms were wreathed in flames; he also stepped back. Aoife pushed herself from the floor and looked at her hands. The wolf that had attacked her was now circling them warily and another two slinked out of the undergrowth to join it, gleaming yellow eyes tracking the humans before them.

Aoife looked up at the beasts, and feeling that this would be their last opportunity to fight them off without bloodshed on their part, she levelled her palms at the one that had attacked her. She then summoned the feeling that had bloomed in her the moment the wolf had started struggling to get away from her; the flames wreathing her hands gathered in her palms, and then, feeling it was the right thing to do, she tensed her hands.

Fire flowed from her hands to the wolves, setting the fur of the one that had attacked them alight and burning it as the flames poured onto it. She directed the fire at the other wolves too; they yelped, running back into the treeline before the flames reached them, fleeing the pair that had ended up being the hunters, instead of hunted.

~o~

Aoife was looking at her hands, deep in thought, as Ralof used their knife to skin the two wolves that they had killed first. It was not the best knife for the job; skinning went best with a razor-sharp blade, but one never knew when a set of furs would come in handy in Skyrim; it was said that before the Empire and its coin, pelts had been the most common currency. He looked up occasionally at the Breton; so she was a mage after all, not unusual for one of her people he supposed, but Skyrim’s current outlook on mages was somewhat on the negative side after the Oblivion Crisis and the collapse of Winterhold. Ralof himself didn’t hold a strong prejudice against magic wielders, but there was no doubt something eerie about them that made it difficult to associate at times.

Once he had finished skinning, disposed of the carcasses and cleaned the furs, knife and his hands in the river, they got ready to set out again. Aoife had the foresight to cut down another bough, but this time didn’t sharpen it so it could be used as a wandering staff, which would still be serviceable as a makeshift weapon should the need arise.

They continued down the road as it followed the river. The midday sun took away the chill of the breeze and reflected off the drifts on the mountaintops spectacularly. The scent of loam and pine was heavy in the air, even as the breeze thinned it. All in all, the road was ideally set for a journey, and absorbing the scenery made the trek seem to pass that much faster. Before long they rounded a bend in the path and before them, in the distance, lay a wall that arched over the road. Behind it the tips of thatched roofs could be seen.

Ralof grinned broadly as he laid his eyes upon his hometown, Riverwood. Hopefully the coming evening would be a more pleasant one than what they had experienced so far. As the two survivors headed towards the village, they did not notice that far behind them, three pale beams shot into the sky.


	7. The Legionnaire

Everything went white, then nothing. Slowly the world swam back into consciousness. The first thing he felt was the rough stone he was lying on, its coarse particles digging into the skin of his roughened cheek. He then became aware of the pain in his shoulder and the back of his head. The shoulder had the ache of a threatening bruise, the pain in his head a thudding sensation that made it difficult to think, each heartbeat seemingly drowning out everything else of the world.

He groaned, shifting to lift an arm that was trapped under his body to push himself up. Gingerly he lifted himself into a crouch, using one hand to steady himself, the other to hold his throbbing head. Blinking several times he looked around. Everything was dark.

Carefully he stretched out the arm he had been using to support himself, blindly groping in the darkness. Straightening, he walked forward, waving his arm before him. After what seemed like a short eternity, he came into contact with a wall. Grateful for the sure hold, he pressed his back against it; he closed his eyes and opened them again, blinking several times. They were slowly adjusting to the darkness. Breathing a sigh of relief that he was indeed not blind, Hadvar looked around.

There was a fraction of light coming in from around the cracks of a door the way he had come from. Then, as if the thumping in his head were a bell ringing a signal, it came back to him what had happened: Helgen, the execution, the dragon, the mad escape and the ambush.

~o~

He had also managed to get into the fort after Aoife had followed Ralof. He could not really blame the Breton for her decision, considering what the Empire had tried to do to her and that he still represented it. But her choice still affected him somewhat - that she had chosen his childhood friend over him; whether it was because of her being a woman, or because of some reason that he himself could not decipher, he did not know.

What he did know was that he was still alive, that he was on his own and that there may or may not still have been a dragon circling the skies above; not to mention the rebels that would no doubt kill him on sight. These things in mind, he set out along the corridor that led out of the barracks towards the foyer where Ralof and Aoife had no doubt entered the building.

A small part of him hoped that he might still come across them, but his head reasoned that it would probably not happen and if it did, what he would be encountering would be either corpses or prisoners – neither of which was a scenario that he would have been at ease with. He had no way to tell how long he had been unconscious for and if they had forged ahead - as he had no doubt they would have – they could be miles from where he was.

Hadvar squinted as sunlight poured into the foyer. A large chunk of the roof had collapsed – no doubt the dragon’s work – and there were bodies strewn across the floor that were clearly the work of someone else. The Nord soldier recognised the captain – she had been a hard woman and he would not miss her. He did not know the other two men; they had most likely accompanied the general here.

He looked over the bodies; the men had been killed by brutish attacks, the kind of wounds that were commonly found in Skyrim – whether inflicted by bandits or soldiers, the weapons used were normally the same, only the quality differed. The captain on the other hand had been killed surprisingly cleanly, considering that they had been under attack by a dragon not too long ago. The look of shock plastered on her face was testament to the killer’s underhandedness.

Hadvar left the bodies; the Imperials could have been killed by any of the numerous Stormcloaks that had escaped in the chaos and it would be futile to think about it. He carried on through the keep, stumbling across more and more evidence of fighting and the dragon; either there was a dead Imperial or Stormcloak, or a collapsed doorway, or a dead Imperial or Stormcloak caught under a collapsed doorway.

Eventually the legionnaire made it to the point where the fort’s tunnels ended and a natural cave system began. Looking over his shoulder one last time, he ducked into the opening – the Empire would need to know what had transpired that day.

~o~

“Brother!” the woman who Aoife assumed was Gerdur called out. She looked to be a strong woman, tall, fair-haired like her brother and with movement that spoke of great strength. She rushed up to Ralof, embracing him tightly.

“Gerdur, it is good to see you again,” Ralof responded in greeting.

The woman stepped back from the embrace, holding onto her brother’s shoulders as a mother would. She looked over him, noting the various bruises, scratches, burns and scorch-marks.

“When we heard that Ulfric had been captured, we feared the worst….” She did not finish the statement and did not need to. Aoife could glean from her tone that she must have been very worried for Ralof’s safety.

“Ha!” Ralof exclaimed, “As if the Imperials could keep a true son of Skyrim locked away.” The Breton could tell that Ralof was only trying to cheer up his sister; his voice lacked some of the conviction that seemed to come so naturally to him.

That was when Hod, Gerdur’s husband, arrived. He was a large man, larger even than Ralof, and he had a large thick beard. He was wearing clothes similar to those of a blacksmith – a woollen tunic, sturdy trousers, boots and a thick leather apron, but instead of being scorched and soot-stained, they were covered in a film of sawdust.

He did not say anything, but simply nodded at Ralof, who took and shook the silent man’s outstretched hand strongly. The large blonde Nord then turned back to stand next to his companion, placing a large hand on her shoulder. “Gerdur, meet the one I owe my life to and on more than one occasion too!”

Gerdur had been scrutinising Aoife with a hard look, but after her brother’s introduction she smiled – a warm, honest thing. “Any friend of Ralof’s is a friend of mine.”

Aoife bowed slightly, “You are too kind; I merely did as any man would have.”

Ralof laughed at this, “As any son or daughter of Skyrim would have, you mean! We were this close to getting our heads lopped off by those Imperial dogs.” But after saying that his face suddenly turned severe, “Sister, there is something we must discuss and I would prefer to do it where the chances of prying ears are lower.”

Gerdur, noticing the change in her brother’s manner, simply nodded. “You can go to our house and rest until the evening. After we sup we can discuss anything more.” She smiled at Aoife, “You at least, my dear, look like you could use some rest.”

“I’ll show them the way to the house,” Hod intoned, speaking for the first time.

“Show them the way to our mead, you mean?” the Nord woman said bluntly, but there was a twinkle in her eye that belied the severity of her tone.

Seeing that the men had started wandering off without her, talking animatedly, Aoife shot a smile at Ralof’s sister as she passed by her to follow after the two; Gerdur had been right - she would love to have a moment to rest.

~o~

Hadvar stumbled through the brush, cutting at the hardy northern plants with his sword. Damn his luck; he had made it through the caverns under Helgen without much fuss. It seemed as if someone had gone before him and cleared it of all obstacles. But as soon as he had made it into the forest, one problem after another had revealed itself. First wolves attacked him; after he fended those off a group of bandits tried to get him. Then he was running, from the wildlife and his own kind; Skyrim was, as ever, a harsh mistress.

The bandits had driven him off the path to Riverwood; perhaps he could travel to Falkreath first and after informing the Imperial garrison there, move on to Solitude. The detour would lengthen his journey quite a bit, but it was either that, or head into the mountains, and every Nord knew that the mountains were dotted with lairs and ruins that housed monsters and savages alike. No, his best chances of survival would be to go to the City of Graves.

 

 


	8. Riverside Revalations

Martin - that was the name of the man he was looking for. Martin _Septim_. Jauffre had tasked Alexander with finding the long-lost and last surviving heir to the Ruby Throne, the last of the dragonblood kings. It all seemed a bit far-fetched, the Nord thought to himself, this business with some fires keeping back all of Oblivion, a fated heir and a relentless enemy. It sounded like a tavern song! Besides, who said he had to be part of it to begin with?

At least, that was what his head was trying to tell him. Every other fibre of his being believed it to be the truth and that he had to do something about it. His head argued, why should he? Someone else could and should; someone important, some powerful politician, some Legion general, not him…some seemingly random occurrence of a person.

Despite all of these internal arguments, his legs kept moving, guiding the horse that Jauffre had given him. It had been Prior Maboriel’s and was a docile thing with a speckled coat, but it served its purpose well, carrying the Nord when he felt that his legs had gotten enough exercise for the day.

Perhaps, he thought, his existence was not as random as it seemed. Why did he have no distinct childhood memories? He recalled having been a child; strangely enough he recalled being a child numerous times. Yet when he thought about what the events had been that led him to this point, it was all a blank slate before getting woken up by that Dunmer in the prison cells.

He watched as the landscape slowly turned from forest into coastal highlands, with large bushes and shrubs becoming more common. In the distance he could make out a hill. No doubt that was the one upon which the city of Kvatch had been built, the city where this Martin was to be found.

Then his mind seemed to latch onto something and his eyes were drawn back to the hill. This time he actually looked and was shocked to see that there were remnants of what had no doubt once been large billowing clouds of smoke from the city. Strangely enough it seemed as though unless he forced himself to notice them, that he didn’t. There was only one explanation: Sorcery.

Who would have the audacity to attack a city in the heart of the Empire? Alexander asked himself as he swung up into the saddle of the horse. Then again, who had the audacity to attack the Emperor at the height of his power? He drove his heels into the horse’s sides , driving it into a gallop. How could a _cult_ possibly have the numbers to attack a city and hope to survive the repercussions?

He rode hard. It was not the fastest horse, but it would be faster than running on foot, with the added benefit of not being tired when he arrived. As he drew closer, everything seemed to grow dim. Where there had been a bright noon sun moments before, the sky was growing dark. _Surely this was not the smoke from the town?_ the Nord asked himself as he put his hand to his forehead. Too many questions.

Finally, Alexander reached the road that wound up the hill. He steered his horse to start the ascent. The sky had turned completely black, but clouds were starting to boil through; deep red ones with forks of crimson lighting jumping between them. He was unsure where the light originated, but everything had taken on a red tint of such intensity that Alexander wondered if he had lost his ability to see in any colour entirely.

Then he saw them, the refugees. Tents had been set up beside the road, or even mere sleeping mats spread on the ground. There were people of every type: men, mer and beast, and they were frightened, confused, and wounded. Clerics of every divine were running around, carrying sheets and water, herbs and poultices; occasionally Alexander saw the flash of one of them casting a restoration spell to stem a more grievous wound. Finally, he reached the last of the tents; a simple wooden barricade had been set up, with spikes facing towards the city. _How did a cult have the manpower?_ The question rang in his head.

The Nord looked back at the angry sky, no longer just blackness, clouds and lightning; there were no more familiar constellations, instead there were oceans of alien lights and planetoids. That could only mean that either something was had changed the entire world’s skies, or that that was no longer a sky of Mundus. The sky was that of a realm of Oblivion.

~o~

Aoife sat up with a start, looking around, and trying to identify her surroundings. Finally, she breathed out a sigh of relief and slumped back onto the straw mattress. She was still in Riverwood, under the roof of Gerdur and Hod. Ralof had left yesterday, citing that he needed to report back to Ulfric and his men and inform the camps along his route of the dragon.

They had been at Gerdur’s for a week, waiting out the storm that was the Imperial investigation into what had happened at Helgen. Fortunately, they had not bothered the town very much; an officer had questioned Gerdur and the mill owner once, but neither having given him satisfactory answers, he had moved his search for clues back into the mountains.

In the meantime, Aoife had tried to make herself useful to the household. She had cooked the one evening meal – an ability she herself was surprised she had. Hod had joked that it was better than anything Gerdur had ever made, which had earned him a hefty kick to the shins, but he took it in stride and just laughed harder, albeit now with tears in his eyes. During the day she normally spent time with the town’s blacksmith, Alvor. He had offered to giver her instruction on the first day of their stay and she had accepted with relish. There was something extremely meditative about the process of the craft, even if its end products could in some cases be used as tools of tragedy.

Then the Breton’s thoughts returned to her dream. Strange, how vivid it was, as if it were not actually a dream. But she felt as though she was actually there, experiencing it, accompanied by all the sensations that one would expect of living out one’s life: scent, hearing, touch, sight, taste. It had all been there, and then she woke up, Alexander no more. Instead she was Aoife - the girl with all the knowledge in the world, yet no history of her own.

That man in her dream had stared at the skies of a realm of Oblivion and they had been above a city of this plain. A crossing over of dimensions in such a manner was not possible, yet Alexander had seen it, experienced it; no _she_ had experienced it and it had happened at a city called Kvatch. The name was familiar; it was that of a city located to the far south, in Cyrodiil. She really had to meet this man; he _had_ to have answers about her state of being. Or at least she hoped he would have by the time she met him. In her dreams, it seemed that he was as confused as her; if that was still the case after they met, they would be able to figure it out together at the very least.

Aoife yawned and stretched; it would probably be wise to get up. She carelessly tossed the furs she used as blankets aside and climbed out of the bed. She stretched again, several joints popping after a good night’s rest. Tossing the furs back onto the bed she walked over its end. There were the leather breeches and vest that they had bought for her, along with her boots and gauntlets. Pulling on the pants and after making sure that there was nobody else in the communal room,  she stripped the tunic she wore when sleeping and strapped on the vest, tightening the buckles that held it together in the front. Then she wound the piece of wolf fur that she had kept from the ones they had killed on their way around her waist and then tied a belt over it. The piece would, in addition to that extra layer of protection  against cold and blows, allow her to preserve some modesty despite wearing such form-fitting pants. In Skyrim, layers were your friends. She then strapped on the new boots and pulled on the gauntlets.

Acquiring the outfit had been her first priority upon waking on her second day. She had bought the breeches, boots, gloves and vest from the local trader, a man called Lucan. Then, as soon as she had learned some of the basics from Alvor, she had bought an iron set of armour from him, which she then stripped down and attached pieces she found necessary to her own getup. In the end she had basically used the whole thing; the only remaining piece was the breastplate, which she believed would impair her movement too much.

The Breton grabbed a small loaf from the table and cut it open; walking over to the hearth she took some of the stew from last night’s meal and dribbled it into the slit she had cut in the bread. Satisfied with her makeshift portable breakfast, she marched out of the house, chewing on a mouthful.

The morning sun was already high in the sky -- Hod and Gerdur were probably already busy at the sawmill. Aoife always marvelled at their ability to rise at the crack of dawn. The crash of timber confirmed the Breton’s speculations. She wandered down the little side path that went from the house of Ralof’s relatives to the main road of the village. She had thought it strange for a moment that the founding family of the town seemed to live so far away from their place of work, which was on the other end of the village from their home, near the river. Perhaps they had built the house where it was for more privacy, or perhaps it had been to ensure it would be safe if ever the river burst its banks. Whatever the reason was, Aoife no longer cared. The family had taken care of her and that was enough; small details like the location of the house were as they were.

She had finished eating up the loaf by the time she reached the timber mill, where Hod was as usual, using an iron hook to haul logs into the conveying funnel for it to be sawn in two. Gerdur was sitting on a stump near the river, with a clay mug in her hand, sipping some water. A sheen of sweat upon her brow attested to her already having worked hard that day despite the early hour. “Aoife! Had a good night I assume?”

“Yes, thanks Gerdur, or at least…an interesting one.”

“That sounds like a story; care to share?”

“Eh, why the hell not.” Aoife sat down next to Gerdur and started to explain, “I slept well enough, but I had the strangest dream. Instead of the normal blur of vague things mixed together that one can hardly remember, this seemed more like me living something out.” Aoife rubbed her eyes, “Damnation, I must sound insane.”

Gerdur put a hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “Not at all. There are many cases of dreams being far more than that. After all, this world we live in – aedra and daedra, it would be strange if you were not a little mad and still expect to be a part of it.”

The Breton looked at her nord companion with a surprised look; Gerdur was speaking as if these were topics she often thought about. Aoife suddenly felt glad that she had met the woman.

“Well, anyway,” she continued, looking back at the rushing waters of the river. “In this dream I was a man, and no, it was not just some passing fancy; I actually was a man. I can remember what it feels like – physically and to think that way. But during the dream itself it felt like the most normal thing ever, as if I had always been a man, been _that_ man; it’s only now that it feels…really, really strange.”

Aoife took a breath, “And that’s the least of it. This man that I was – he’s just like me. He doesn’t know where he’s from except for what he is; he remembers nothing beyond a certain point in his life where he just wakes up and finds himself to be.”

At the look of confusion on Gerdur’s face at what Aoife was saying, the breton smiled. “I had hinted at that when Ralof and I were travelling together, but it might have been during all the confusion at Helgen that he probably forgot or labelled it as ‘think about later’. I wondered if he had maybe told you about it yet.”

“No, he had not. Are you saying you don’t know who you are? Where you’re from?” Gerdur asked incredulously.

“Well, not really. I know _what_ I am, but not _who_ – or at least I think so…hope so. I am Aoife Dovahvrhan, Breton and fighter, maybe a mage too, but those bits are fuzzy.”

“’Maybe?’”

“Yes, as I said, fuzzy. Others told me about it, but for me my mind went blank, it was pure instinct I think. But, back to the story!” Aoife directed them back to the original topic, noting that Gerdur was getting uncomfortable. “So I was this man, and I felt like I had always been him, yet he didn’t know who he was, the same as me. He was traveling to a place called Kvatch, a city in Cyrodiil, I believe, and that’s when things went weird. The whole of reality seemed to be getting twisted. Smoke from the city was invisible unless you actually tried to see it. The closer I – he – got to the city, the darker the sky grew, even though it was just noon. When he was right up to it, there were these red clouds rolling across the blackened sky, with lightning jumping between them, as if there was  a storm. There was also this creepy red light suffusing everything, as if there was no actual light source. Then, as he got closer to the city, he went through this whole refugee camp of injured and fleeing people that were trying to get away from the city.”

At this point in Aoife’s retelling, Gerdur’s eyes were wide with shock. “Aoife,” she started, voice low, “do you have any idea what you – the man, was doing there?”

“Uhm, something about a cult. Oh yeah, I’d had a similar dream before when I passed out in the fighting beneath Helgen. Same man, but a bit earlier in time – he was travelling somewhere and thinking a lot about some Emperor and his amulet – the one that he was carrying with him to deliver to some priory.”

“…Have you no idea who that probably was?” Gerdur asked, in the same tone as before.

“No. I thought I should probably look him up though; he might be able to tell me what in Oblivion is up with me. My own existence confuses me!”

At this the Nord woman laughed softly and excused herself, saying that she would be back shortly. She returned within a few minutes, carrying a thin leather-bound book that looked as if it had seen better days. “The inn’s owner, Delphine, allows me to borrow some of her books; she really has a lot for someone who spends most of her day serving people food and mead and kicking out drunks.”

Gerdur sat back down next to Aoife. “This dream you’re telling me about; I’ve heard about it before - mostly sung of by the bards and in far less detail, but have a look here.”

Aoife was looking at the straw-blond woman with an unreadable expression as Gerdur flipped open the the book. Paging through the first blank pages she reached the title, ‘The Hero of Kvatch.’ It was written in a careful, flowing script, as if the author or copier of the book had taken great care to pen those first four words.

The Nord looked at Aoife again. “This book recounts the events of something that happened several hundred years ago. In particular, the involvement of one man – his name was lost over the ages, but his deeds were not. He almost single-handedly brought an end to the Oblivion Crisis; when the Mythic Dawn – a daedric cult – tried to usurp the Empire.”

Aoife ran her hand over the aged page, absently commenting, “Seems that attempted usurping is a trend.”

“Yes,” Gerdur responded, nodding, “but in those days it would have been a far worse scenario than now. The Septim Dynasty was one put in place by Talos himself; the current Empire is an insult to everything Martin Septim and the Hero of Kvatch gave their lives to save.”

“His name is Alexander…was,” Aoife said, her voice almost a whisper.

Gerdur smiled at the raven-haired Breton. “Well, that settles it. From what you’ve told me you’ve experienced and how you claim to have come to be, I believe the world has great things in store for you – or you for it.”

She closed the book and handed it to Aoife. “I don’t know if you can read, but for some reason I’m sure you can. Read it and perhaps it will give you some direction, or…reason. Just be careful, Delphine would kill me if the book got damaged. For some reason that woman frightens me – she has the same look you have.”

“And what look do I have?” Aoife asked carefully, accepting the book.

“That of one who has seen too much, one who has done too much, one who knows they have yet much to do. Although, those beautiful ancient eyes of yours seem to say it in a gentle manner; Delphine’s are as cold and hard as the glaciers around Winterhold.”

“Thank you, I think.”

Gerdur merely nodded and stood up, moving back to the mill to help her husband, leaving Aoife deep in thought. Deciding to deal with introspection later, she opened the book she had been given again and turned to the first page, where the flowing script covered the page, weaving knowledge into the paper.

_‘At the turning of the Fourth Age, in the year 3E 433, the Emperor Uriel Septim VII was assassinated....’_

Aoife was sucked into the retelling of events of so long ago, yet to her it felt strange; she had experienced a fraction of these not a week…a few hours ago. Yet here it was - the story of how Alexander had driven back Mehrunes Dagon and brought about the end for the Mythic Dawn. The book was surprisingly concise; Aoife had read it all the way through before it was even noon, the sun shining down on the spot where she sat, pleasantly warming her even as the breeze from the mountains tried to chill. Such was the beauty of Skyrim, a land of stark contrasts.

All the core facts were there, but there was little more than that, as if it had been either too difficult to find out more, or the book had been written purely to let the world know that it owed its continued – relatively - peaceful existence to the so called ‘Hero of Kvatch.’ Still, the whole thing fascinated Aoife. Then it dawned on her that the Hero had lived hundreds of years before. The chances of actually ever being able to talk to him had all but evaporated. So did her plan to seek him out.

Aoife sat there by the river until late afternoon, thinking of what had just been revealed to her. It was all a bit too much to come to terms with in such a short time, but one thing was for sure; if the Hero had appeared where he did, the way he did, to do what he did – despite his confusion at his own existence, she could, and would, do the same if called on to do so.

Her mind started running through what had happened so far: she had woken up on a prisoner transport, very similar to what had happened to Alexander. Only by pure circumstance had she not died that day, just as he had not been left to rot. For her a dragon had appeared, for him an emperor had been killed; if either of them had had any prior experiences it would have been a turning point – instead it was a starting point. Both events were cataclysmic in nature - an emperor killed so the dragonfires would die, and a dragon, a creature of myth and legend, returning. Aoife was sure that her fate was tied to whatever was happening with the dragons.

She sighed and ran her hand over her face. A peaceful life would never be hers…, She had enjoyed her short stay with Hod and his wife, but she saw now that things would never work out for her that way. Living in the town, learning a craft – they would only ever be dabbles for her, not a lifestyle. Her arrival in Skyrim was testament to that - not even conscious for an hour and already there was blood and death everywhere. She stood up, stretching, not realising how long she had been lost in thought.

Finally, she picked up the book and headed back to the house of her hosts. There she started preparing for the next day; the day of her departure.


	9. Journey to the Jarl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which comfort is left.

That evening, when Gerdur and Hod returned to their home, Aoife told them of her decision: she would be leaving Riverwood. They discussed her plans over the evening meal, which turned out to be a good thing since Aoife didn’t actually know anything of the layout of Skyrim.

“You should go to the Jarl,” Gerdur finally said. “He’ll need to know about the dragon if it hasn’t shown itself again. Also, Riverwood will need protection; a few guards might discourage the beast.”

“Yes,” her husband agreed, nodding. “Balgruuf is a good man, and does not wish to get involved in this war we’re in. Whiterun is probably safest for one such as yourself.”

Aoife listened to them as she ate. Finally she chewed and swallowed the last mouthful. “Very well. I’ll meet this Balgruuf. I admit the idea of running around in the wilds clueless only held the smallest allure.”

With the evening meal done, they piled up the dishes and placed them on the table to be cleaned the next day. Gerdur then sat by the hearth to read from one of the books that were carefully stacked inside her closet. Aoife wondered how she had only now noticed this, but perhaps there was some part of her that thought of reading as not being so strange, even among commoners. Hod joined his wife and chipped at a piece of wood with a small knife, no doubt carving something for one of the village children.

Aoife decided that since she would have a long journey the next day, it would be best to turn in for the night. She crept underneath the furs that she had flung back on the bed that morning and after shifting around a bit, found a comfortable position on the worn hay mattress, finally drifting off to sleep. She dreamt of fire.

~o~

Brimstone, lava, noxious gases and death; everywhere Alexander looked these things painted the landscape and crept into his senses. The Nord shifted his body as a vicious-looking sword parted the air where he had been a moment earlier, not even thinking as he moved. He then brought his shield about, moving to punch his aggressor with its edge. The solid steel rim crumpled the strange black and red metal that the attacker’s helmet and other armour were forged out of. The humanoid figure collapsed to the ground, its ghastly war-cries finally ceasing.

Alexander then casually swung down his sword as he passed an impish creature that was screeching at him and trying to form a firebolt in its claws - it too fell to the bloodthirsty soil. One moment he had been before the ruins of Kvatch, then he was in a place where everything gleamed such a horrid red that his eyes were almost always watering, or perhaps that was just from the chemicals that hissed from between rocks. Needless to say, he needed to find a way out and hopefully not die while doing so. The number of creatures trying to kill him was obscene.

He cleaned his sword on the fur-covered legs of the creature he had just killed and looked towards the centre of the island where a large black tower loomed in the red sky. Well, he thought to himself, better chances of getting out there than through the lava.

~o~

Female, Breton, Skyrim, Riverwood. Aoife took a deep gulp of air as she woke up panting; she was drenched in a cold sweat. She had seen Oblivion.

The more she thought about it, the less frightening it became, and more disconcerting was the constant readjustment of who she was. She had to resist the urge to check that she still had all the same parts as before going to bed. Oblivion, the realm of daedra. Alexander had indeed experienced it, so it had to have been him – the Hero of Kvatch.

Aoife rolled out from under the furs and began the same morning ritual. Once she was dressed, she walked outside and cracked open the thin sheet of ice that covered a barrel of water and splashed the frigid water over her face to wash the rest of the sleep from her eyes.

She entered the house again and picked up the pack that had been prepared the evening before. As she strapped it on, Gerdur walked up and hugged her. Stepping away from the raven-haired woman, she clasped her by the shoulders and looked her solemnly, “Remember, your eyes are kind.”

Aoife nodded, keeping her face blank. She shifted the pack into a more comfortable position and set off, walking through the yet quiet roads of the small village. There was an early morning fog flowing in from the river, blanketing the main road. Aoife reached it and turned to follow to the east, walking past the Sleeping Giant Inn and Alvor’s smithy. She looked at the still glowing embers of the forge fondly. Finally, she reached the wall that marked the end of the town. Breathing in deeply, she set one foot in front of the other and set forth.

~o~

The day promised to be one ideal for travel. The sun was starting to look out over the rugged landscape from between the mountain peaks in the east, dispersing the fog that hung over the river. Aoife walked along the path, hearing the rushing sound of rapids ahead. She hoped the path would not force her to cross them; she would rather not have to wet her clothes so early in the day. She had crossed the river once soon after leaving Riverwood; thankfully there had been a sturdy bridge there.

She looked up the slope of the mountain nearest her. The road was winding very closely to the roots of the peak that was home to the place Ralof had called Bleak Falls Barrow. Once she was closer and could see the ancient architecture biting up into the sky, it brought a chill to her heart. No doubt there was something beyond what the eye could see about the place.

She unconsciously picked up her pace, hurrying along the road until she heard voices ahead. Having yet to experience hospitality beyond what Gerdur had shown, Aoife immediately became wary. She loosened the sword she had acquired from Alvor in its sheath. It was a plain iron blade, but it would serve its purpose should the need arise.

Rounding a bend, she came upon where the river began its rough descent through rocky terrain, the noise blocking out anything understandable that the voices said. These she found to belong to three Imperial guards that were escorting a lone man whose hands were bound and had a sack tied over his head. They stopped speaking upon seeing her, eyes immediately suspicious. The lead one who she recognised as a centurion from the styled armour waved at Aoife to keep walking. “Official Imperial business. Move on, stranger.”

Aoife nodded, trying to hide her relief, which she felt was painted across her features. She had almost expected them to try and arrest her for what had happened at Helgen. But when  she thought about it, none of the guards there would have had a good chance to look at her aside from that one who had taken her register, and hopefully he would have forgotten her over the fuss with Ulfric, if he had survived at all.

It had, after all, been their intent to throw the Legion off their tracks by laying low in Riverwood for a while. Gerdur had asked her to meet with the Jarl at Whiterun. Perhaps she would be able to disappear among the crowds of the city once that task was completed.

She rounded another bend in the road. The trees had thinned out considerably and what she saw took her breath away. The road wound down into a large basin; rolling plains stretched out before Aoife, and standing out defiantly among all the golden grass was a city that seemed to grow out of the hill it was built on. Crowning it was a massive structure whose arching roof reached into the sky with the same pride that seemed to infuse nearly all Nords.

The picture before Aoife was one of such solidity and safety that she could hardly believe that the land was at war with itself and that a dragon had attacked a city just a few days ago. She continued down the road. She suddenly wanted to see the inside of such a charismatic  city.

The path eventually led to a series of houses before which rows of planted crops were arrayed. Farms - the first of which she had encountered to her knowledge. She admired how well the plants seemed to be doing in the hard land when she heard an inhumane bellow from ahead. Her sword was still loose from her earlier encounter with the soldiers. She drew and gripped it so that the blade ran alongside her arm and rushed forward, cursing the pack as it dug into her shoulders.

By that point the sun was high in the sky and a sweat quickly broke out over her brow as she pushed herself towards the source of the noise. Drawing nearer she heard an almost bestial war-cry accompanied by the yell of a clearly feminine voice. Then she saw it; a giant being attacked by three well-armoured individuals. The massive creature swung its club around, smashing it against the shield of one of the men at its legs.

Aoife expected the man to go flying. Instead, she only heard a low grunt as he stepped back. Another man had circled around the back of the giant, this one wielding a massive sword which he swung in an arc against the back of the giant’s legs. The creature howled as it dropped to its knees, tendons severed. The last attacker was a woman clad in a rather skimpy assortment of armour and leather who wielded a bow. This was drawn back to its fullest, and as soon as the giant fell to the ground she released the shaft, which buried itself in the creature’s eye. It howled once more, lashing out with its free hand.

Aoife made it to the group, abandoning her pack on the ground a few yards from the fight. She tightly held her sword with both hands and intercepted the swing which would have taken the man wielding the claymore in the ribs. The blow flung her into the air and the giant bellowed out once more, sword digging deep into its thick skin.

Aoife winced as she hit the ground - several crops broke her fall. She struggled up again, to find that the giant was now lying face-down on the ground,presumably dead. The man with the two-hander seemed to have made sure of this as he tried to extract his sword from the creature’s back. The woman with the bow approached Aoife, taking care to step around any plants. By the time she reached her, the Breton had managed to get to her feet and look presentable again.

“You fight well, perhaps a bit recklessly, but well,” the red-haired archer said in greeting. She had, in addition to the leather attire, three dark marks painted across her face, as if a creature had mauled her, but with war-paint.

“Couldn’t let you have all the fun,” Aoife said with a lopsided grin.

“Well, you should see if you want to join the Companions. We have our Hall – Jorvaskerr – in Whiterun. Only the most honourable warriors in Skyrim may call it home.”

“You make a living off fighting?” Aoife asked curiously.

“We lend a strong arm to those who pay, or in some cases, against those who deserve it.”

“So you’re mercenaries?”

“There have been times when we have been nothing more than that, but there is a great deal more to the Companions in truth. We were originally formed by Ysgramor. He and the original Companions were the first to tame Skyrim,” the woman explained. “But this is hardly the place for a history lesson. Kodlak is far better at that anyway. My name is Aela, who might you be?”

“Aoife,” the Breton introduced, nodding.

“A fine name; fierce. Those other two clods are the brothers Farkas and Vilkas. That is one thing about the Companions – we live up to our name. You will always have a shield-brother or sister to fight – or drink – alongside you.”

“Careful Aela, you’re selling us so well one might think that you’re taking lessons from that Belethor,” the man wielding the shield said gruffly.

Aela merely snorted at this and addressed Aoife again, “We’ll be heading back to Whiterun now. Do you wish to accompany us? Getting you past the gates is the least we can do for you saving Farkas’ hide like that. The guards have been annoyingly stricter than usual with newcomers recently.”

Aoife looked at the woman with a hopeful expression. “You would do that? My impression of Skyrim improves by the day.”

“Don’t let her fool you,” the larger of the brothers said, “She’s just tired of being outnumbered by the men in Jorvaskerr.”

“Tread carefully, Vilkas. I know where you sleep and that you still haven’t finished reading your first book.”

The Companions continued to roughly tease one another in this manner all the way to Whiterun. Aoife remained quiet, simply enjoying the banter as it flew between the three. That evening, she would hopefully spend the night under a friendly roof once more.

~o~

Aela watched the Breton woman carefully as they made their way towards home. She had an air about her that whispered of great secrets, good and bad. Her features were soft and innocent, a smile came to her lips almost too easily and her laughter chimed in a manner that made her shudder. She could only wonder what it did to the men. But those eyes. Aela had been a huntress all her life; all creatures had eventually become her prey, be they dumb, beast, man, or mer – all manner of life had seen its end at one of her shafts or even bare hands. Yet when she looked into Aoife’s golden orbs, the seemingly youthful joy and innocence of her face was forgotten. Her eyes were those of a hunter, _the_ hunter, ageless instinct seeping through. The Nord woman had to struggle to keep the beast within her contained; Hircine would be the one to decide what was to be done with this Aoife.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Please leave a comment if you enjoyed this, the more comprehensive the better. If not, please also leave a comment detailing why. I aim to grow.**  
>  ლ,ᔑ•ﺪ͟͠•ᔐ        〆(・∀・＠)  
> 
> 
> e153n.tumblr.com


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